Sense
by pointlesspostits
Summary: Emma Stoneheart has always been different from the rest of her family, and when she leaves her home in Glasgow to find her father in London she has no idea what she'll find. After escaping the clutches of Jim Moriarty with nothing but her life, Emma is left alone to defend her father's ruined reputation - First in a trilogy - AU-S2E3 and beyond - rated M for violence - parent!lock
1. Chapter 1 - Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)

**this fic marks my return to fanfic after 2 years of pretending to be cooler than i actually am. ive had this idea since reichenbach was first aired and its been slowly growing and blossoming in my mind ever since. i'll try very hard not to create one of those cliche 'sherlock's daughter' fics, i really want this to work out.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 1 - Rabbit Heart<strong>

"Did you have to buy that one?" Casey Stoneheart sighed and threw the newspaper she had picked up back down onto the old coffee table where it had previously resided. The headline emblazoned on the front page read '_BOFFIN SHERLOCK SOLVES ANOTHER'_, above a large photograph of the aforementioned detective in a deerstalker.

"Yes. He's interesting." Emma retorted, raising her eyebrows slightly before returning to her book, muttering "you should know better than others, mother."

"Shut up." Casey glared at her daughter, the glow from the television lighting her face in such a way that it aged her ten years.

"Oh, come on, it's not my fault you got drunk, lost a bet and fucked him is it? Stop acting like it is."

"Emma! Don't swear in front of your brother!" Daniel Stoneheart took things like _words_ much too seriously for Emma's liking, and it wasn't as if Emma's half brother, Andy, didn't hear it all the time at school.

"It's fine, dad, I hear it all the time at school." Andy piped up from where he was lying on the floor, completing a jigsaw – a large picture of the cast of _Harry Potter _emerging tediously slowly from the pile of pieces next to him.

"Well, as long as you don't use words like that..." Daniel said bitterly, shooting a displeased look at Emma.

"He does." Emma didn't even look up from her book.

"No I don't!" Andy's voice went exceptionally high, the number one sign that –

"He's lying. When he goes squeaky he's lying." Emma flicked over a page, "I'm sure if I looked up he'd be picking at his fingers; he does that when he lies too." Her eyes flashed up for a second, "Oh look, I was right."

"Look," Casey switched off the television with a violent flick of the remote, and shifted in the chair to face Emma, "This needs to stop; _you _need to stop. This is exactly what _he _used to do! I won't have you turning into a weirdo like him!"

"I'd rather be weird than _normal._" Emma slammed her book shut and turned to glare at her mother, "You're all so _boring_, everyone's so boring!"

"Fine! If you think he's so interesting why don't you go join him and his boyfriend solving murders? And when you get yourself killed don't expect me to be sorry." Casey had stood up now, and looked down on Emma with a look of disgust in her eyes.

"Maybe I will." Emma raised an eyebrow, her words calm, quiet and deadly serious. Casey's face dropped, her eyes becoming large and sad.

"What?" Her word was short, and tugged at the end by emotion.

"Maybe I will leave. Maybe I'll go and find my dad, and _maybe_ he'll appreciate me a little more than you have for the past fifteen years." Emma tapped the cover of her book once with her long, pale fingers, then stood and left the room without another word. She had got up the stairs and into her room before her mother even made a noise. Emma shut the door to block out the sound of Casey's sobbing.

She opened the laptop sat between two stacks of books on her desk – the webpage open was the blog of John Watson – before collapsing into a chair and facing the screen. She hunted around the website for a good half an hour until she found an address for enquiries. 221B Baker Street, London – Great.

"Couldn't have lived further away, could you?" she muttered. A next day train ticket from Glasgow to London would cost a bomb. After some searching, she booked her journey; it was a good thing Emma had her mother's credit card details memorised.

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><p>"Aren't you a bit young to be in London on your own?"<p>

"Are your employers aware that you're addicted to cocaine?" Emma asked the taxi driver, smiling. He looked shocked, then his expression returned to normal, glazed over and disinterested,

"Where 'you going then, love?"

"Baker Street, thanks."

The driver didn't speak again after that, thankfully, Emma found him incredibly boring. She placed the earphones which had been hanging from the neck of her hoodie back into her ears and resumed her music.

'_I must become a lion hearted girl, ready for a fight.'_

Emma tapped her foot along with the beat of Florence and the Machine as she watched the tall, grey buildings whip past the taxi windows until they began to slow.

"We're here, love." Emma wished the taxi driver wouldn't call her that, passed him a twenty pound note and hauled her suitcase and backpack out, slinging the latter over one shoulder as the cab pulled away. She found 221B a little way down the street and banged the knocker three times, leaving it straight on the door. A few moments later a woman opened the door and peeked her head around. Emma pulled out one earphone and put on her best (fake) smile,

"Hi."

"Oh, hello, dear. Are you here to see Sherlock?"

"Yeah, actually, would you mind letting me in? Don't let me disturb your cream tea."

The woman's smile drooped slightly, "How did you -?"

"You have scone crumbs on your blouse and a smudge of jam on your forefinger; obvious really."

The woman raised her eyebrows, "Well, you certainly don't seem to need him, but Sherlock's upstairs." She opened the door fully and stepped out of Emma's way.

"Thanks," Emma smiled, then set off up the stairs, the sound of an argument drifting from the closed door at the top,

"It's an ear hat, John!" There was a pause, "What do you mean, 'more careful'?"

"I _mean_," Said a calmer, second voice, "this isn't a deerstalker anymore, it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective anymore. You're _this far _from famous!"

"It'll pass."

"It better pass. The press _will _turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they'll turn on you."

Another pause,

"It really bothers you?"

"What?"

"What people say?"

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand, why would it upset _you_?"

Emma knocked on the door, having eavesdropped enough to satisfy herself. The voices started again,

"John, door."

"Yeah, I know."

Emma pulled the other earphone out and let it hang from the neck of her hoodie as the door opened. A relatively short man, maybe 3 inches shorter than Emma, with grey-blonde hair and an obvious military background stood looking at her, a look of confusion spread across his face.

"Um, can I help you?" He asked.

"Ah, Doctor Watson I presume, love the blog." Emma took his hand and shook it, flashing him a smile as she pushed past him into the small, shabby flat. She didn't take in much of her surroundings, just the skull on the mantle, a violin sitting near the window and the person she had been waiting fifteen years to meet.

"Sherlock Holmes." She smirked at him, dropping both of her bags on the floor.

"Oh God," John moaned, "if you're some sort of weird fangirl or something -"

"Shut up, John. No, she's something different..." Sherlock suddenly sat forwards in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Emma had the horrible that she was being x-rayed, "You've come from Scotland, but you're not Scottish."

"Yes, but that was obvious." Emma raised her eyebrows at him, "I had higher hopes for you."

"Was it?" John asked; he looked even more confused than before.

"Train ticket sticking deliberately out of my pocket so that where I departed from was clearly visible for anyone who happened to look. Obvious English accent. Easy."

"You're not looking for help, that's for sure, you wouldn't need it, and no one would travel that for for a case, which means..." Sherlock paused, almost glaring at Emma, "That you're -"

"Ever heard of a woman called Casey Williams?" Emma interrupted, "Sorry, I got bored."

Sherlock thought for a moment, then swallowed hard, "Oh God." he said bitterly.

"Yep," Emma took a step towards him, holding out her hand to be shaken, "My name is Emma, Emma Stoneheart, and you're right. I'm not here for your help, I don't have a case that needs solving or a dog that's lost; I'm here because I want to meet my father."

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><p><strong>reviews would be appreciated, and ill try and upload at least once every two weeks.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2 - No Hope

**wow i wrote this fast - dont expect updates this quickly for every chapter, im just very excited to have finally started this fic. so yeah, this chapter follows on directly from the last, then goes on to start to introduce the reichenbach storyline.**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2 – No Hope<span>**

There was a long, sticky silence. Emma watched Sherlock intently, but his expression after having heard her words remained the same.

"Um, no," John said suddenly, his voice tinged with irritation, "not following. Fill me in please?"

"Emma, this is Doctor John H Watson, my good friend and flatmate. John, this is Emma Stoneheart my... offspring." The last word was spoken with so much distaste that Emma was rather taken aback by Sherlock's introduction.

"Wait, Sherlock. You have a daughter?"

"Yes, apparently; didn't really know until a few moments ago."

"And you're just going to accept it like that? She could be scamming you, or – or something!"

"With that much resemblance? I doubt it John."

It was true; looking at Sherlock was, to Emma, like looking in a mirror. Admittedly, a mirror which altered gender, hair length and height, but a mirror all the same. They shared the same pale skin, icy blue-grey eyes and dark hair, and the same constantly bored tone.

"OK, but _really_, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. There is, however, a more pressing problem at hand," Sherlock pointed at the bags at Emma's feet, "Suitcase?"

Emma shrugged, "Got bored of having the same argument every night, figured you might appreciate my genius more."

"So, wait a minute," John turned to face Sherlock, "You can't be considering this?"

"Why not? Something to scathe of the boredom for a while, it might be fun. There's a store room upstairs, we'll get Mrs Hudson to clear it for her," A small smile appeared on the consulting detective's lips, "And there's the delightful incentive of irritating Casey Williams – I never liked her."

"Then why'd you -?"

"Oh please, John, we were drunk and she lost a bet."

"It was the only way he was ever going to get laid, wasn't it?" Emma smirked.

"Hmm," Sherlock glared at her.

"Just quoting my mother."

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><p>The next few days were worse than Emma had imagined. She was enrolled at the local secondary school almost immediately, despite her many, <em>many <em>protests ("I ran away to _avoid _things like school for God's sake!"), and any time she spent at 221B was spent mostly in silence. She may have been boring, but at least Emma's mother had actually made an effort to speak to her. To top it all off, she kept finding body parts in the fridge and, on one particularly bad occasion, in her bedroom.

Emma had been organising the bookshelf in her new room for half an hour undisturbed, arranging the books which had been in three knee high piles in the corner of the room onto the shelves alphabetically by author, then chronologically by the time of publishing, until she moved one particularly large volume to reveal a jam jar nestled in the space between the pile and the wall. She picked it up and inspected the contents through the glass,

"OK, those are eyes..." She muttered, before dropping the jar as quickly as possible. Eyes freaked Emma out.

_They're staring at me_, she thought.

"Stop that." Emma said to the eyes. The eyes stared back.

She moved over to her suitcase and flipped it open, pulling out a t-shirt which she threw over the jar. She scooped up the heap of t-shirt and jam jar, then carried it at arm's length down the stairs and into the living room. Presenting them to Sherlock, Emma cleared her throat.

"Fridge." Sherlock said bluntly, without looking up from the microscope he was squinting into.

"They're _eyes_?"

"Yes. Fridge."

Emma shrugged and carried the jar through to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"Are there always toes in the cheese drawer?" She called to Sherlock whilst slipping the jar next to the jam in the refrigerator door (jam on the left, eyes on the right; she didn't want to get that mixed up in the morning).

"No, sometimes there are fingers." John smiled at her, placing a mug in the sink. Emma hadn't noticed him enter the room behind her, but that was probably because she was focusing on not dropping eyes all over her socks. She pulled the t-shirt from over the jar with a flourish, much like a magician, then shut the fridge door.

"Ah, OK then." She folded the t-shirt and placed it on the kitchen table, then gave John a half-hearted smile.

"It doesn't bother you? His experiments?" John asked, pointing vaguely at the fridge she had just closed, a puzzled look crossing his features. Emma had noticed that his face looked like that a lot over the past few days.

"Why would they? I just don't like eyes, I'm fine with everything else." Emma thought for a moment, and then said, much louder than before, "As long as he doesn't leave them in my room!"

"You're as bad as John!" Came the reply from the living room.

"At least I'm not a child." Emma muttered, raising her eyebrows; John chuckled.

The two were silent for a moment. John was watching her as if he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're not at all what I expected." He broke the silence.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem quite normal. I expected Sherlock's daughter to be more..."

"Like him?" Emma questioned, "I don't even know what he's like."

John paused, "Well... He's a bit of a tit really, but he's beautifully intelligent."

Emma snorted, "Gay."

"What? I am _not _gay." John glared at her. Emma raised her eyebrows, picked up her t-shirt from the table and set off out of the kitchen,

"Sure you're not."

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><p>Emma tapped her foot along to the beat of the song on her iPod as she consumed the words of the book she was reading. It was now early afternoon, but Sherlock was still sat in front of his microscope, though he had moved from the living room to the kitchen, and had hanged someone from the light fitting. Admittedly, a plastic someone, but Emma expected they had had it coming anyway.<p>

_'There's no hope, and it's time to come of age / I think it's a problem, does it ever go away?'_

The Vaccines blared in her ears, blocking out the room around her until one earphone was tugged out by John, who poked her in the knee, indicated to the dummy and asked

"So, did he just talk to him for a really long time?" He was grinning, obviously proud of his joke. Emma shrugged and paused her music, sensing a conversation was about to take place as John went to sit in his armchair, opening a newspaper.

"What, oh," Sherlock glanced up at the doctor briefly, then went back to his microscope, "Henry Fishgard never committed suicide," He slammed the book next to him on the table shut, causing dust to erupt from its pages, "Bow-Street Runners... missed everything."

"They were a vigilante police force from the 1800s weren't they?" Emma put her own book down so as to join the conversation from where she sat on the sofa, "that 'case' you said you were working on must be over 200 years old."

Sherlock looked up at her "What an esteemed deduction, I can see you will go far in the line of detective work."

"No need to be sarcastic, Sherlock." Emma raised her eyebrows at him.

"Pressing case, is it?" John interrupted, shooting Sherlock a warning look.

"They're all pressing until they're solved..."

The room fell into silence again as they each fell back into their own business, Emma again becoming consumed in the book in front of her, until Sherlock's phone went off, half an hour later.

No one moved to check it, which obviously irritated John for some reason as he folded up his paper noisily and muttered, "I'll get it, shall I?"

Emma watched him go to pick up Sherlock's phone out of the corner of her eye, only putting her book back down when John nudged the detective,

"Look at this."

Sherlock took the device and scanned the screen quickly, then stood up.

"Emma, get your coat."

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><p><strong>yay ok i will have the next chapter up as soon as possible. thank you for reviewing and following and that.<strong>

**also all of the chapters are named after the songs that appear in them, and the story is named after the tom odell song of the same name for reasons which will come to light post-reichenbach**


	3. Chapter 3 - Fluorescent Adolescent

**A/N - oops its been more than a week um sorry i guess but this chapters a little bit longer so forgive me?**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 3 – Fluorescent Adolescent <span>**

'_GET SHERLOCK'_

The detective John had introduced as Lestrade handed Sherlock a phone, on which an image of a man about to smash the glass case that held the Crown Jewels could be seen. Emma caught a passing glance of the words smeared on the glass, the O a menacing smiley face, and looked to Sherlock for some sort of explanation.

"Security systems were down here at the Tower, and at the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison. No idea how he did it, must've been a distraction. Thing is," Lestrade took the phone back from Sherlock, who took his own from his pocket, "when we got here he was just waiting for us, he made no attempt to leave with the Jewels."

"Of course he didn't, he's done this to get my attention," Sherlock waved off Lestrade's remarks, "I'd have thought that was obvious."

"But why; what does he want?" John asked, "He never tells us straight, does he?"

"Wait," Emma spoke now, "You've seen this guy before?"

They all turned to look at her as if they had forgotten she was there. Sherlock raised his eyebrows,

"Yes." He said, as if she should have known already.

"OK, but who is he?"

Sherlock tutted.

"Who _is _he?" Emma said, a little louder.

"James Moriarty is the most dangerous and most influential man in the criminal underworld of Britain – possibly the whole world, I'm not sure, I've only met him once." Sherlock shrugged off the end of his statement.

"That still doesn't tell me –"

"He's the bad guy." Sherlock interrupted impatiently.

"Fine, thank you. Jesus Christ."

Lestrade's eyes flicked between the two of them,

"You didn't say, Sherlock, who is this?" He asked, pointing vaguely toward the girl, who raised her eyebrows and folded her arms across her chest.

Sherlock said nothing, and instead looked to John, who sighed loudly.

"That's Emma; she's his daughter." He said irritably.

"Daughter?" Lestrade laughed, "Are you kidding? I mean, I was expecting something ridiculous but I wasn't expecting that."

"Yes, thank you, Inspector, shall we get back to the _case_?" Sherlock tutted bitterly, tucking his phone into his coat pocket.

"What case? We've got Moriarty – he's in the car over there."

"Not who did it, you moron, _how_." Sherlock started to perk up, "The Bank of England, Pentonville Prison _and _the Tower of London all at once? It's genius." He looked as if he was discussing something absolutely fantastic but Emma failed to see anything exciting about the concept.

"Genius? Someone who can unlock any door in the universe remotely sounds more terrifying to me."

At this point another police officer pulled Lestrade to one side, and the two began discussing the scene. As they chatted, Sherlock turned to Emma,

"What do all of the security systems of those institutions have in common?" He demanded. Emma was slightly taken aback,

"What, sorry; is this some sort of a test?"

"Just answer, please." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"They're all electronic – all security systems are these days."

Sherlock snapped his fingers, "Got it. And what can people –"

"They were hacked, Sherlock, I get it," Emma didn't know why she interrupted him. She supposed that she had a subconscious urge to impress him, as irritating as that idea seemed, "You don't need to act like I'm a child."

"You are a child."

"I'm fifteen!"

"Exactly."

Emma sighed and Sherlock gave a triumphant smirk, then turned to John, "Why do this?"

"I'm sorry, since when did you ask me questions?" John sounded genuinely surprised that the Detective would do this, which confused Emma, as he hadn't even made a noise when Sherlock started testing her.

"But why, John? Moriarty left us alone for a year and now this – what does it mean?" He was getting quite angry with himself now, so Emma thought it best to intervene,

"Why don't we just sit back and wait for developments?" Emma suggested calmly, her words directed at John, but watching Sherlock carefully out of the corner of her eye, "He obviously wanted to get caught, so he probably wanted to have a trial. We could wait and see what he does then?"

Sherlock made a noise of realisation, "Of course, the trial!"

"Wait, what about it?" John asked. John sure asked a lot of questions.

"A big, public case like this – someone tried to steal _the Crown Jewels_, the media will _lap_ it up – the trial will be publicised, publicised _a lot_; he doesn't just want _my _attention," Sherlock turned to face Emma, his eyes bright and his face full of what looked like excitement, "he wants _the nation's_."

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><p>"And <em>where<em> were you yesterday?"

Emma stopped in her tracks and sighed, screwing up her face,

"Shit, it's Tuesday."

"Yes," Miss Cross said, raising her eyebrows, "it is." She picked up a pile of textbooks and dumped them into Emma's arms, "Now, you can tell me where you were and _then_ you can give everyone a textbook, got it?"

Emma sighed again, and rolled her eyes at the Chemistry teacher, "I was investigating a break-in at the Tower of London."

"Yeah?" Miss Cross raised her eyebrows again, "And I didn't turn up to parent's evening last night because I was opening a concert for One Direction; hand out those books."

Emma smirked at the teacher, then set about handing out the books, before collapsing into her seat a few minutes later.

The lesson was long and boring. Miss Cross went on for half an hour about things Emma already knew about before setting the class on a task that Emma didn't care about. There wasn't even any interesting conversation; the girl who sat next to her refused to speak, and by the looks of her makeup and the deep frown lines on her forehead as she tried to read the words in the text book, any conversation that may have taken place would have been either snide remarks about the way she looked or questions about chemical symbols, and Emma wasn't in the mood for that.

Instead she thought about Moriarty, and the message he left on the glass of the jewel case. '_GET SHERLOCK_'. At first she had thought it was directed to the police – to get them to bring the detective to look into the break-in – but, after further contemplation, it became clear that it wasn't.

It had occurred to her as she walked into school; she had passed a newspaper stand, with the security footage for Moriarty plastered over every issue visible. The message was scrawled all over the news, '_GET SHERLOCK'_, everyone would see it. And, if Moriarty was what Sherlock had said he was - most dangerous and most influential man in the criminal underworld – he would have a network, a network of people who would follow his every order. A network of people who would '_GET SHERLOCK'._

Emma made a mental note to warn her father as soon as she got back to 221B, then turned to the girl sat next to her,

"You can't have more than eight electrons in the third shell of an atom."

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><p><em>'You're falling about, you took a left off Last Laugh Lane  you were just sounding it out, you're not coming back again'_

On her way home, Emma noticed several things. Firstly, a man leaving a busy hotel in the city centre on the phone to his wife, telling her how well his conference had gone, and yes of course he was going to get a promotion, all the while waving goodbye to the woman he had been sleeping with for the past three nights. Secondly, someone had straightened the knocker on the door of 221B Baker Street that wasn't her, therefore they had a visitor.

Thirdly, Sherlock wasn't happy, judging by the shouting that was drifting down the street from the window.

Emma paused her iPod and pocketed the earphones, squinting up at the second floor. She unlocked the door and set off up the stairs, treading carefully so as to not make them creak, listening to the conversation.

"Is this really the best thing to do, Sherlock?" An unfamiliar voice asked. They sounded calm and authoritative, the tone of their voice led Emma to believe that they were an older sibling.

"Trust me, Mycroft; I know what I'm talking about." Sherlock sounded irritated, though he had stopped shouting, which was a good thing, Emma supposed.

"I have never trusted you, brother."

Emma raised her eyebrows – brother? Sherlock hadn't mentioned that she had an uncle. Perhaps it was because they didn't seem to get on, Emma supposed.

"Fine, then don't; but just promise me that if he comes asking, you tell him what he wants to hear."

"Very well, just don't blame me when he uses it to ruin you."

It was then that Emma chose to open the door and enter the cluttered living room,

"When who uses what?" She asked as she dumped her backpack on the floor and hung her long, black coat on a hook by the door.

"No one and nothing," Sherlock sounded angry, and began ushering his brother towards the exit, "Thank you, Mycroft, and don't straighten the knocker on your way out." But Mycroft paused,

"Same hair, same facial bone structure and same eye colour – brother dearest, you never told me you had a daughter." Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, his eyebrows raised and a small smirk on his lips.

"Shut up. Get out." Sherlock snapped, almost pushing the older man now.

"Now, now; there's no need to be embarrassed," Mycroft was clearly enjoying this too much. Emma wasn't sure if she liked his attitude at all, he seemed very childish, "What's it's name?"

OK, she definitely didn't like him, "_Her _name is Emma," She interjected, folding her arms, "And she would also like you to leave, thank you very much."

"You heard her: leave." Sherlock was the one smirking this time. Mycroft raised his eyebrows,

"Very well; have fun playing Happy Families."

And with a twirl of his umbrella, he was gone.

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><p><strong>AN - thanks for reading :) reviews would be appreciated. also i will try and update by next wednesday but yeah, no promises**


	4. Chapter 4 - Sinnerman

**A/N - sorry about the wait! i was on holiday :/**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 4 – Sinnerman<span>**

The next day Emma reached the hallway of 221B to hear the sounds of arguing. She assumed it was Mycroft again and sighed loudly, before reaching for the door handle.

"I swear, Sherlock, if she ends up dead because of you –"

Emma froze. That wasn't Mycroft. That wasn't Mycroft at all.

Her mother had followed her to London.

Emma stayed outside of the door, not wanting to interrupt. She knew Sherlock would have heard the stairs creak and so knew she was here, but her mother would have no clue – the argument continued regardless.

"She won't end up dead! Despite what you may think, Casey, and despite what the papers say my whole life doesn't revolve around murder."

Emma snorted – that was a blatant lie, but her mother wouldn't be able to tell. Casey could never tell when anyone lied to her.

"That may be so, but do you even have _any _idea how to look after a fifteen year old?"

"She doesn't need looking after."

"Oh, there's your first mistake – despite what she tells you, Sherlock, Emma is still a child. I trust you're sending her to school?"

Emma sighed, sensing a boring turn of the conversation, suspecting that she missed the full blown shouting when she was at school. She pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. Sherlock didn't turn, he had known she was there, after all, but her mother whirled around, glaring,

"_You_ are in deep, _deep _trouble, young lady," She practically dragged Emma into the room, slamming the door shut, "for a _start _you owe me two hundred pounds and how _dare _you leave without my permission! And to live with a man you've never met!"

Emma pulled away from her mother's grip, scowling, "Sherlock's fine. He takes better care of me that you ever did." This was, again, a blatant lie, but Emma wanted to hurt her mother as much as possible.

"You have no idea what he's like! He could be a serial killer for all you know!"

"Actually, he's the one who solves the murders, he doesn't commit them."

"Shut up," Casey snapped, "You're coming home with me, get your things."

Emma's eyebrows shot up, "Oh, am I? I rather think I'm not." She crossed her arms across her chest.

"If I may interject," Sherlock interrupted, "Surely it should be Emma's decision where she lives?"

"I already told you, Sherlock, Emma is a child, she doesn't know what's best for her." Casey spoke to him as if he was a five year old, unable to completely comprehend what was going on.

"OK, no, I'm not having this. I am not a child, mother_, _and I _do _know what's best for me, and what's best for _me _is definitely not living with _you." _Emma moved back to the door and threw it open, "If you could leave now, please, that would be great."

Casey looked at Sherlock incredulously, as if he would put a stop to all of this nonsense, but he said nothing, he just looked at her expectantly. She sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of her nose. That was what she did when she was trying to calm down, Emma noted.

"Just –" Casey put her hands down and looked up at Emma, "Just text me, or something, once a week, let me know that you're safe." She looked defeated, her eyes as large and sad as the day before Emma had left.

"I might," Emma had no sympathy, she simply folded her arms, "Bye, mum."

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><p>Moriarty's trial occurred the next week, and Sherlock had been called on as a witness as he was one of the only people known to have had a conversation with the man. Emma had managed to persuade Sherlock to phone into her school to get her the day off (he had insisted <em>just <em>the first day, but Emma would work on that later) by insisting that going to a trial would be more educational than the drivel she was forced to listen to for 5 hours every day – he had agreed with that.

She was to sit with John in the gallery, and had been forced to wear a dress so as to look smart. She had agreed only at the compromise that she could wear a scowl too. John had laughed at that – Sherlock had not.

At half past seven, a police car arrived outside of 221B to take the three of them to court.

"Ready?" John asked the two others in the hallway.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, sounding rather indifferent. The front door was pushed open by the doctor. There was a bright flash as the first of many photographs of the three of them was taken. The lights left blotches in her vision even as Emma screwed her eyes up against them, and they remained there as several police officers ushered her, John and Sherlock into the back of the car.

Emma was squashed between the two men, feeling rather uncomfortable and wondering how many drunks had vomited in the back of this car before. Sherlock turned his head to look at her,

"If anyone asks you, you are not my daughter; you are a law student who wanted to observe the trial. John is your uncle, do you understand?" He said all of this rather quickly, and Emma blinked at him.

Sherlock sighed, "Moriarty will have people in the gallery, I'm sure – if he finds out about you I don't know what he'll do, but I'm certain it won't be nice."

Emma raised her eyebrows, "Wow, okay," She chuckled lightly, "Don't want to get murdered or anything."

They were silent for a few minutes. Emma didn't like sitting in the middle seat, she couldn't see out of the windows – though she had lived there for two weeks already, she still felt like a tourist; the thought of Trafalgar Square whizzing by the windows, unobserved by her, disheartened Emma slightly.

"Remember..." John started, gazing past Emma at Sherlock, who looked irritated and interrupted him,

"Yes."

John tried again, "_Remember_..."

And Sherlock, again, interrupted, "_Yes_."

John looked out of the window, his frustration evident, then turned back, speaking quickly, "Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever..."

Sherlock spoke over him bitterly, "No."

John persevered, "and _please_, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across intelligent." Sherlock muttered.

"'Intelligent' fine, let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

Sherlock sighed and there was a pause in conversation. Emma glanced between the two men anxiously. She felt an argument brewing.

"I'll just be myself." Sherlock said quietly.

"Are you listening to me!?" John snapped. Emma laughed at the incredulous look on Sherlock's face. He stared at her like that for a moment, before tutting and looking away from her out of the window.

"Do you reckon he even knows what he's like?" Emma half whispered to John, grinning.

"He does it on purpose," John answered, trying very hard not to laugh, "Look, he's sulking."

There was another tut from the detective, who still refused to look around. The three of them fell back into silence and only the sound of the radio from the front of the taxi was heard.

_'Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? / Where you gonna run to? / All on that day'_

* * *

><p>"A 'consulting criminal'?"<p>

"Yes." Sherlock answered the barrister. Emma and John watched from the gallery whist the accused stood in the dock opposite the detective, chewing gum nonchalantly, as if he were not in a trial at all.

"Your words," The barrister continued, "Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating." The prosecuting barrister raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." Sherlock said without a shred of humour in his voice. There was laughter from a few members of the gallery.

"Would you describe him as –" The barrister started, but Sherlock interrupted,

"Leading."

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness," Sherlock tuned slightly toward the defending barrister, "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

"Mr. Holmes." The Judge looked exasperated. Emma guessed that this wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this during his evidence.

Sherlock turned back to the defending barrister, "As me how – _how _would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?" He finished irritably.

The Judge, again, interjected, "Mr. Holmes, we are fine without your help."

Emma caught John turning in his seat to watch a woman entering the gallery. She glanced up at the woman – she seemed rather unremarkable to Emma; John probably fancied her or something. She turned her attention back to the court – her eyes drawn to Moriarty, who looked so ordinary but yet so terrifying. He continued to chew his gum, looking as if he was unaware that he was on trial.

The barrister continued, "How would you describe this man – his character?"

"First mistake," Sherlock's gaze fell on Moriarty, "James Moriarty isn't a man at all,"

Moriarty's eyes glanced up at the gallery and fell on Emma, who found herself frozen, unable to look away.

"He's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads..."

His lips curled up into a smirk – Emma felt sick.

"... And he knows precisely how each and every one of them dances."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was kicked out of the trial for contempt. To be honest, Emma felt as if she should have seen that coming – John definitely had. The two of them sat on the steps of the court building after a recess had been called, the bitter December wind biting at their hands and faces. Members of the gallery and jury meandered out of the doors infrequently, walking past the pair without a second glance.<p>

John stood, brushing off the knees of this trousers as he did so, "I'm going to get Sherlock," He announced, "You'll be alright here for a bit, won't you?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Tell him I think he's a dick."

"Don't worry, I'll be telling him that myself..." John muttered. He gave her a small wave, then turned and walked away.

Emma sighed loudly, pulling the iPod out of her pocket. She was about to put the headphones in her ears when she felt someone collide with her back and doubled over, the offending man regaining his balance and laughing, then offering her a hand. She took it and stood next to him – the man was tall, his hair a dark sandy colour; he looked in his late twenties. He wore a cheap suit and looked as if he felt rather uncomfortable in it. He stood with the posture of one in the army.

"Sorry about that," The man laughed, "Are you alright?" The laughter didn't suit him – neither did the smile on his face.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine," Emma stuffed the iPod back into her coat, and then added scornfully, "You should take better care of where you're walking."

"I'm sorry I was in a bit of a rush to leave – I hate those kinds of places." He pointed back at the court building's door with his thumb. Emma narrowed her eyes,

"Then why did you go?"

"Part of the jury." He shrugged.

No he wasn't. Emma had seen every member of that jury and he hadn't been sat amongst them.

"Oh, I'm Sebastian, by the way." He smiled at her, obviously waiting for her to introduce herself in return. He worked for Moriarty, Emma was sure of it.

"Annie Cresta," Emma gave the first name that came into her mind, and smiled back convincingly, "Nice to be tripped over by you. Now, I must be off, they'll want me back at college." She gave him a wave, then set off down the steps and kept walking until she was safely hidden around a corner.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and dialled John's phone number – he had given it to him telling her it was best to ring him in an emergency rather than Sherlock, as Sherlock didn't seem to see time pass at the same rate as the rest of the world.

"Hello? Is something wrong?" John answered, sounding slightly annoyed – Emma suspected he had been in the middle of a conversation with Sherlock.

"Moriarty had someone here – I think they know who I am."

* * *

><p><strong>AN - its a bit longer than usual so i hope you didnt mind the wait! reviews would be appreciated :)**


	5. Chapter 5 - A Million Ways

**A/N - yooooooo 2 chapters in one week to make up for the lack over the two weeks before**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 5 – A Million Ways<span>**

"What did he say to you?"

Sherlock and John found Emma in her hiding spot down an alleyway, and Sherlock immediately marched up to her, speaking quickly as he grabbed hold of her shoulders. His eyes were hard and serious – he almost looked as if he cared.

"He told me his name was Sebastian and then asked me what mine was. He pretended to be part of the jury."Emma stepped out of Sherlock's grasp.

"Did you tell him your name?" John asked, sounding concerned.

"No. I just told him a name out of a book," Emma shrugged, "As long as he hasn't read _The Hunger Games _we should be fine."

"He'll have known you were lying," Sherlock tutted, "If he's who I think he is then he can tell that kind of thing."

"Why, who'd you think he is?" John turned his worried gaze from Emma to Sherlock.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock stated, "He's an assassin for hire, though I've heard he's no longer freelance. He belongs to Jim Moriarty."

"An assassin?"

"So I've heard."

"He wasn't acting very much like one today," Emma raised an eyebrow, "seeing as no one's dead."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, "Not yet."

Emma blinked, "Oh, that's a nice thought."

Sherlock smiled, "Isn't it?"

* * *

><p>"You're not going back there," Sherlock said, "One of the world's most infamous assassins is waiting for you there and I made a promise that I wouldn't let you get killed."<p>

"I'm not going to get killed at a _trial_; there would be way too many dangers – too many people, way too many potential witnesses."

"Don't get clever with me," Sherlock looked up at her from where he sat with his laptop on his knee. Emma scoffed; he could talk. Sherlock continued, "You're not going to the trial. Go to school." He looked back down at the screen.

Emma went over to the door and threw her coat on over her uniform, muttering under her breath, "Bastard,"

"I heard that."

"Fuck off."

When she got onto the street, Emma looked behind her to see if the boy in her Physics was walking up the road, as he always was when she was on time. She couldn't see him, indicating that she was either very late or mildly early. She put her headphones into her ears, pulled out her iPod and pressed play,

_'Sit back, matter of fact, teasing, toying, turning, chatting, charming, hissing, playing the crowd / Play that song again, another couple Klonopin, a nod, a glance, a half-hearted bow'_

Emma shoved her hands into her pockets to keep them out of the bitter cold and set off on her way to school. As she turned the corner she saw the boy – Oliver, if she remembered correctly – precisely 30 seconds walking (at his pace) in front.

So, not that late then.

The boy turned slightly to look over his shoulder, possibly hearing the sound of her footsteps, and smiled as he saw her, slowing his pace slightly so that she could catch up. Emma sighed, but obliged the boy, meeting his pace and smiling as she pulled the headphones out of her ears,

"Morning,"

"Hey, it's Emma, isn't it?" He asked. His face was thin and his hair dark. He looked like a liar to Emma, so she decided she didn't trust him.

"Yeah, that's it."

There was a long pause. Oliver looked as if he wanted her to continue the conversation. Emma sighed loudly,

"So, did you have a nice weekend?" She asked. Small talk was not her thing.

"It was okay," Oliver shrugged, looking down at his feet. His head popped back up quickly and he turned to look at her again, "Hey, um, you missed the double lesson yesterday, do you want to borrow my notes or anything?"

"What did you do?"

"Measuring current and voltage in circuits."

Emma groaned, "_Circuits_? Ugh, boring."

"I actually quite like them."

"Well, you would."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You have a tiny mind; you're easily amused."

Oliver, to Emma's surprise, laughed, "Oh," he said sarcastically, "Thanks. Well, no one can compare to the might of your massive intellect, can they?"

Emma smirked, "No, actually."

* * *

><p>Emma heard talking again as she climbed the staircase to 221B, though they seemed more subdued than usual – no one was shouting. For this reason she assumed that it would be fine for her to enter unannounced.<p>

"... we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring –"

James Moriarty stopped mid sentence and turned his head to watch Emma enter,

"Oh, we missed you at the trial, _Annie_," Moriarty waved, his smile sickly sweet. Emma stared, dropping her schoolbag by the now closed door without a word, "Seb was _very _upset."

Emma glanced at Sherlock.

"Not guilty? Really?" She asked, her voice a half whisper.

"So it seems." He answered, pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a sip.

"He rigged the jury then?" Emma shrugged, relaxing slightly, seeing as Sherlock didn't seem alarmed, "I expected something a bit more... dramatic. Can I have one?" She pointed to the tea in the detective's hand. He handed her a cup; it seemed as though he had anticipated her arrival during the scene.

Emma went to pull up a chair from the table by the window, and sat facing the two in an effort to join the conversation. Moriarty didn't stop watching her as she moved with a calculating gaze. When she sat, she took a sip of tea before turning to the man and prompting, "So, the jury?"

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, "Cable network." He acknowledged.

Moriarty lifted his teacup from its saucer, "Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen..." He lifted the cup to his lips, glancing at Emma, "And every person has their pressure point; someone they want to protect from harm." He took a sip, and put the cup down, moving his gaze back to Sherlock before finishing softly, "Easy peasy."

Sherlock had sat down in John's chair, and was holding his tea cup up close to his face, "So," He asked, "How're you going to do it?" He blew on his tea pointedly, "_Burn me_?"

Moriarty lifted his tea cup again, "Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Haven't you worked it out yet?" He sipped at his tea again, "What's the final problem?" He smiled into the teacup, "I did tell you," His voice was sing-song, "But did you listen?"

He placed the cup back down on the saucer, before idly drumming his fingers on his knee. Emma watched them dance, there seemed to be no distinct rhythm, but the action seemed important, though Moriarty didn't look to be concentrating at all.

"How hard do you find it?" He asked, his fingers still drumming on his knee, "Having to say 'I don't know'?" Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, who placed his cup onto the saucer and shrugged,

"I dunno," He said nonchalantly, raising his eyebrows.

Moriarty chuckled, putting his teacup back onto the tray on the table, "Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; _awfully _clever." He raised his eyebrows, "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock asked.

"Why I broke into those places but never took anything."

"No."

"But _you _understand?" Moriarty turned back to face Emma again, "Both of you do?"

"Obviously." Sherlock answered, causing Moriarty to face him again.

"Off you go then." He took out a penknife from his pocket, cutting a chunk out of the apple in his hands and putting it in his mouth, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock looked slightly confused – or, as confused as it was possible for him to look, "You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No," Moriarty almost laughed, "I want _her _to tell me." His gaze fell on Emma again, who raised an eyebrow at him,

"Why?"

"Just curious," He shrugged.

Emma sighed, "You didn't take anything because you didn't _need _to."

"Good," Moriarty sounded surprised, and turned to give an approving nod to Sherlock.

"You'll never need to break into anywhere again."

He chuckled again, "_Good_... because?" He prompted.

"Because the money you could get from, say, the Crown Jewels; that's _nowhere near_ the amount you could get for the key to get to them – the key to get to anything or into anywhere."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code." Moriarty must have decided that he had heard enough, as he began to explain, "No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order." He grinned at Emma, "In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should _see_ me in a crown."

Sherlock interjected, "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do." There was a faint smile on his lips.

Moriarty began cutting into the apple again, whilst addressing Sherlock, "And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me." He put another piece of apple in his mouth, smiling wryly and raising his eyebrows, "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"Wait," Emma started, "If you could break into whichever bank you wanted, why do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't," Moriarty scoffed, then smiled, "I just like to watch them all competing – 'Daddy loves _me_ the best'" He imitated, then continued in a drawl, looking back at Emma, "Aren't _ordinary people _adorable?" He turned to Sherlock, "You'd know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one." He finished, almost as an afterthought.

"Why _are _you doing all of this?" Sherlock asked, but Moriarty wasn't listening,

"It would be so funny."

Sherlock continued, "You don't want money or power – not really."

Moriarty stabbed the penknife back into the apple, as if he was not aware that Sherlock was talking.

"What _is _it all for?"

Moriarty looked back up at Sherlock, leaning toward him and speaking softly, "I want to solve the problem – _our _problem; the final problem." He lowered his head, "It's going to start very soon, Sherlock – the fall."

He raised his head again and whistled, the note descending as he moved his head back down to look at the floor – as if he was watching someone fall to the ground, before making the sound of something hitting the floor.

"But don't be scared," He did not look up as he spoke, but his words became harder, "Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

Moriarty raised his head, glowering at the detective, who stood from John's chair and buttoned his jacket, "Never liked riddles." He said, shrugging his shoulders. Emma placed her teacup on the table, also standing but feeling considerably less relaxed than Sherlock after Moriarty's speech.

Moriarty rose from his seat, straightened his jacket and looked at Sherlock pointedly, "Learn to," his voice held a note of sympathy, "Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock... I. _Owe. _You."

The last three words were not a threat, they were a promise. Moriarty held Sherlock's gaze in silence for a few seconds before slowly turning and leaving the room, leaving the apple on the table. The penknife was crudely sticking out of the side, and Emma moved to pick it up, reading the message carved in the side, before turning it to show her father, who's mouth twitched into a smile.

_'I. O. U._'

* * *

><p><strong>AN - to be honest it was super hard to au that scene, so the majority's the same :/ **

**reviews would be appreciated :)**


	6. Chapter 6 - Last Stop: This Town

**A/N - christmas at baker street. youre welcome.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 6 – Last Stop: This Town<span>**

Emma hated the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. Just because it was almost the holiday teachers felt that it was okay to slack off – just giving the class a quiz or a film to occupy them for an hour before moving on to the next. Not only was this hugely unsatisfying (she had seen the first hour of _The Muppets Christmas Carol_ three times, but had still not seen the end), but it was lazy as well. They were teachers; it's their job to _teach_.

Emma also hated the last day of school because everyone seemed to forget that seating plans existed, and so Oliver seemed to think that he was obliged to sit next to her. Emma would have preferred it if he didn't, if she was honest.

"If Santa has 3 hours to visit 3,000 houses, and takes 3 seconds to place presents under a Christmas tree, how long does he spend travelling within this time?" Miss Cross asked, reading out the fifteenth question in her 'festive fun quiz'.

"I resent her referring to maths as 'fun'." Oliver muttered, taking the lid off of his calculator, about to start working out the problem.

"I agree. It's 1,800 seconds, by the way," Emma tapped the paper twice with her finger, "unless she wants it in minutes, in which case it's 30."

He looked exasperated, "Will you give me a chance?"

"I did – you had 3 _whole _seconds to work that out."

"No one could work that out in 3 seconds!"

"Couldn't they?" Emma smirked, "1,800 seconds. Check it." She pointed to the calculator.

Oliver punched in the numbers, a determined look on his face, then he pressed the enter key and frowned,

"Dammit, you were right." He said half heartedly.

"Aren't I always?"

Oliver scoffed, but said nothing else on the matter.

"Hey, did you hear about the bloke who stole the Crown Jewels? He got off scot-free; dunno how though."

"He didn't steal them, he just tried them on;" Emma said quickly, "The next answer is silver." She attempted the change the subject.

"Ah, OK," Oliver glanced up at the screen where the questions were shown before scribbling the answer, "But how did you know that?"

"Well, clearly it's silver, you just need to consider –"

"No, the Crown Jewels thing."

"Oh, I was sort of there afterwards." Emma looked down at the paper.

"No way; you never told me."

"'Oh, sorry I was off yesterday I was investigating a break in at the Tower of London'; 'No, Miss, I wasn't in last lesson because I was at the trial of the century'; 'I had tea with a criminal mastermind yesterday I didn't have time to do my chemistry homework' – do any of these statements ring a bell with you? At least two of them got laughs." Emma listed off the quotations on her fingers, before glancing up at the screen again, "Mistletoe."

Oliver wrote down the answer on the quiz sheet, "To be honest, I thought you were being sarcastic to piss off Miss Cross."

"Yeah, she did too." Emma's thin lips curled up into a smirk.

"Didn't you get a detention for the last one?"

"Yep; apparently I have to stop lying to her."

At this point the aforementioned teacher interrupted, calling for quiet from the class so that she could go through the answers. She seemed to have given up – it was last period, after all – and went through the answers as fast as possible. She was dressed in a much smarter fashion than usual, and seemed to have made an effort with her appearance, her long red hair in an intricate bun. So, the staff party was tonight, then, and it seemed she wasn't able to wait (Emma had noticed that her teacher had her eye on one of the physics teachers across the corridor, which was probably why).

Emma and Oliver got full marks – and a packet of Parma Violets each.

The final bell went and there was a cheer from some of the rowdier members of the class, at which Emma tutted. As he slung his backpack over his shoulders, Oliver grinned at her and asked,

"Hey, are you walking home?"

"What," Emma laughed at him, "Like I do every other day?"

"Well, I don't know, you could have been going to catch up or something."

"It's the last day of school, they don't run catch ups. Also, what would I need to catch up on? I'm ahead of everyone else, it should be them catching up."

As they left the classroom and headed towards the school gates, Oliver sighed, "Do you always have to be like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like, y'know... you always act so _superior_."

"That's because I am."

Oliver laughed at her. Emma still though that it was weird he was so amused when she wasn't trying to be funny, but he was the only person so far who hadn't called her a freak, so she had accepted that he was going to be the only friend she'd get.

He was scrawny and tall, Emma's senior by 3 months and 5 days and spent his free time, she had been surprised to find out, reading classic literature. He had terrible taste in music, but Emma had plans to sort that out – she had given him a pile of CDs to listen to over the Christmas holidays in lieu of a present, telling him that he needed to stop with the Pitbull already or she would punch him. He had chuckled at that as well, not seeming to realise that she was serious.

If she was honest, though, Emma felt sorry for Oliver. His parents had died in a car accident when he was seven and since then he had been living in a children's home in Central London. He hadn't expanded anymore on that, but his family history seemed even more fucked up than hers, so she didn't want to push it. There were several other younger children from his home that also went to their school, but Oliver insisted that they were all awful, and that he hated most of them. Emma had smiled at that; she admired people who _hated_. What's the point in living if you didn't have anyone to hate?

"I guess I'll see you in two weeks then." He shrugged his shoulders as Emma drifted away from him towards the door of 221B after the short walk between their school and her house.

"Yep," Emma pulled her door key out of her pocket and waved to him, "Have a nice Christmas, or whatever."

Oliver waved back, smiling, "Yeah, you too. Try not to get dragged off to too many crime scenes over the festive period."

"Oh no, I _will_," She pushed the door open, then turned back to him, "The only time _he _ever talks to me is when we have a case, otherwise it will be a very boring Christmas indeed."

"Fair enough; see you later."

"Yeah, bye."

She kicked the door closed with the heel of her foot before setting off up the stairs and peeking her head around the living room door,

"I'm home."

"I know." Sherlock answered flatly.

"Yeah, I know; just thought I'd confirm that it was me and not Moriarty."

He sighed and looked up from his laptop, "Stop trying to be funny, it doesn't suit you."

Emma sighed and went up the second flight of stairs to her bedroom, shutting the door and picking up a book, before dropping her bag and coat on the floor and collapsing onto her bed. Christmas with Sherlock was not going to be fun.

* * *

><p>"Mrs Hudson," Emma hissed as she knocked at the woman's door, "Mrs Hudson, I need your help!"<p>

There was a muffled "Just a minute, dear" from inside, and the sound of plates being put on a drainage board. A few moments later the door was pulled open,

"What's wrong, Emma? Sherlock hasn't been leaving experiments in the microwave again, has he? I swear, that man –"

"No no, well, yes but that wasn't the point. I just... What am I supposed to do about tomorrow?"

"What do you mean tomorrow?"

"_Christmas_?"

"Oh yes, that one," She paused, "Why; what's wrong with Christmas?"

Emma sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, "_Sherlock_; what do I do about Sherlock? I assumed he wasn't a Christmas person but now I'm worried it was a bad decision to not buy him anything and, Jesus Christ, Mrs Hudson, what if –" She stopped herself. She wasn't going to admit to Mrs Hudson that she was worried her father would disapprove of her in some way, or that she was scared he would hate her any more than he already did, or that he would get bored of her and send her back to her mother, "You know what; it doesn't matter. I'll just shove some cash in his card or something. Sorry to bother you, I'm gonna go now."

Mrs Hudson looked at her wearily, "Alright, dear, as long as you're sure," then she finished brightly, "You three are still coming down here for your dinner aren't you?"

"I assume," Emma shrugged, "Who knows what Sherlock'll want to do? Anyway, I'll be off now, I'll see you later."

She went up the two flights of stairs to her room and shut the door behind her, sighing. Her iPod sat on its dock, and she pushed the play button before sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling a jumper from under her bed. A note was taped to the top of it:

_This better not be for me_

_Also, you get 1/5 for your hiding place – obvious_

Emma ripped the note from the sweater, muttering something about how Sherlock was a dickhead, before collecting a roll of wrapping paper, cellotape and a pair of scissors from the same spot and setting them out in front of her.

She wrapped John's present carefully – she had noticed him wrapping presents earlier in the week, taking at least five minutes on each, meticulously folding each crease with precision and care – as she knew he appreciated that kind of thing, the music playing on her stereo flowing through her, ridding her of the worry that had so recently plagued her mind.

_'What if I was not your only friend in this world / Can you take me where you're going if you're never coming back?'_

Music was the most important thing in Emma's life. It was the only thing she loved: it helped her to concentrate on what was important to her; tuned out the distractions of the wider world; focused her on whatever was paramount. He mother used to say it was scary watching her listen to music – that it was like she was high on heroin or tripping on acid. He eyes became unfocused, almost glazed over, and, if she wasn't concentrating on anything but the music her body became stiff and unmoving. It was as if nothing existed to her while layer upon layer of instruments played in her ears.

This had been the case for years – before she could even talk she would mumble along with the radio, singing wordlessly. She learnt to play the piano at the age of four, however her skill at such a young age had scared her mother and so she had been forbidden to play within two years. Emma still played at school, however, losing herself in the flow of the notes and the sweetness of the harmonies. She couldn't quit it – she expected that was what it was like to be an addict, and music was her drug.

* * *

><p>Mrs Hudson had had too much sherry. John had had too much whiskey.<p>

Emma had had _way_ too much cider.

They laughed rowdily as they forced Sherlock into the pink paper party hat that had fallen out of his Christmas cracker. It was only three in the afternoon and, already, Sherlock had had enough of the festivities and was itching to get back to seclusion.

"Yes, excellent, can we get dinner over with now, please?" He asked irritably. Emma giggled – he pulled silly faces when he was annoyed.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't be like that," There was a red tinge in Mrs Hudson's smiling face, "It's Christmas!"

John sniffed loudly, "Turkey would be nice, though, Mrs Hudson." He said, raising his glass to his lips once more.

The woman laughed loudly, the shrill sound sharp in Emma's ears, "No no, we have to do presents first!"

She pulled a pile of presents out of a cupboard and placed them on the dinner table, where they were all sat. John received two jumpers, one from Emma and the other from Mrs Hudson, ("Why does everyone always buy me knitwear?" He asked, bewildered) and a membership for a dating website from Sherlock, which was promptly thrown in the bin by the angry blogger. Emma had thought that to be very funny. She got two books – _Pride and Prejudice_ from John, who had explained that Harry had liked it when she was Emma's age; and _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ from Mrs Hudson, which Emma pretended not to have read and loathed already – and got nothing from Sherlock, which didn't surprise her at all. Sherlock received a book called "_The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York_" from John, but then slated it, stating that it was much too amateur for a chemist of his calibre; and a new shirt from Mrs Hudson, whom he thanked curtly.

After opening her own presents, Mrs Hudson took another two presents from the sideboard, explaining that they had come through the post for Emma a few days before. The first was clearly from her mother, and was a CD that Emma herself had already bought. The other did not have a return address, or a note saying who had sent it.

When she opened the wrapping, she was left with a large, leather-bound collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales. She flipped open the cover to see if the sender had written anything inside; and they had. In small block capitals, scrawled in the top corner of the title page were the words: '_STORY FOUR SHOULD INTEREST YOU... EVERY FAIRYTALE NEEDS A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED VILLAIN'_.

She flicked to the contents page and looked up the title of the fourth story.

_The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was_

"That looks nice," Mrs Hudson leant around to look at the book, but Emma snapped the cover shut before she could read it, "Who sent it, does it say?"

Emma was suddenly feeling very sober, "No. No it doesn't." She placed the book to one side, before glancing at Sherlock and tapping the cover twice with her fingers. He nodded at her once, obviously getting the message, "But I'm pretty sure of who it's from."

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><p><strong>AN - wow such plot twist**

**please review it distracts me from my awful life**


	7. Chapter 7 - Bigmouth Strikes Again

**A/N - i like the first half of this chapter a lot - the second half not so much but yknow, they couldnt go 2 months without a case, could they?**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 7 – Bigmouth Strikes Again<span>**

Curled on the sofa, her feet tucked up under a cushion and leaning her back on the arm, Emma sat, soaking in the words of the book John had bought her for Christmas. The flat was silent; Sherlock was in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, thinking, and John had gone out over an hour ago, neglecting to tell either one of them where he was going. The silence was nice, and Emma felt oddly contented with the lack of sound, though her index finger tapped idly against the cover of the book, following some unheard melody, keeping perfectly in time.

The two of them must have been sat like this for at least an hour; however Emma lost track of the time, as she often did when she was reading.

"Independent," Sherlock said suddenly, his fingers breaking apart and settling on the arms of his chair.

Emma had been so immersed in her book that she almost jumped when Sherlock spoke. She closed the book and turned in her spot so that she was sat forwards, her feet touching the floor, before looking up at him, "Independent?" She asked.

"You – that's the best word I can think of to describe you."

"Wait," Emma placed the book on the sofa next to her, matching Sherlock's calculating gaze with her own, "Have you been sat there _deducing me_ for the past –" she glanced at her watch, "- two hours?"

"It's not been two hours, don't be ridiculous."

"That's a yes, then."

Sherlock sighed – a deep, exasperated sigh – and rolled his eyes as if this was a conversation the two of them had a lot, which it wasn't, "You're a strange character. I was simply trying to sum you up in my head. Now, John, he's easy: Loyal, dependant, a little useless; but you're more complicated."

"That's probably due to sharing a gene pool with you." Emma raised an eyebrow and smirked; Sherlock, to her surprise, returned her slight smile.

"Quite," He muttered.

"So," Emma prompted, leaning back into the sofa and crossing her arms, "Independent?"

"You ran away from home at fifteen years old to live with a man you have never met just because your mother was, and I quote, 'annoying'." He replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, apart from that?"

"Have I ever had to do anything for you?" His question was rhetorical, but Emma considered it for a moment – he hadn't, "You cook for yourself with adequate skill – you obviously were not used to having meals made for you with your mother – as well as cleaning and shopping and all of that boring stuff." He waved a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, well. Mum wasn't too inclined to make me dinner when I rolled in off of the streets at 2 in the morning every night." Emma shrugged, and then continued, seeing Sherlock's slightly quizzical expression, "I used to like to go to Victoria Bridge at night, looking out at the moonlight dancing on the water of the River Clyde. The city at night cleared my head – I used to be very angry back then, you see, but less so now – it used to pull me away from my family and their remarks."

Sherlock was watching her carefully as she spoke, his fingers once again steepled beneath his chin, "Remarks?" He prompted, his voice almost soft.

"My mum used to get scared when I could tell her stuff she thought was secret – y'know, how many more anti-depressants she'd taken than usual, that kind of thing – she said that it'd get me into trouble one day. She used to tell me I was a 'weirdo', or whatever. She said I was too much like you – she said I'd end up getting myself killed by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And Daniel..."

"Your stepdad?"

"Yeah. He was, well – let's just say I didn't take to him as a child, and he's not really liked me very much since."

"What do you mean?"

He was deducing again.

"Mum tried to get me to call him 'Dad' when I was a kid – about three, I think – but I refused. I think she was hoping I'd just fall into calling him that but I didn't. He was rather offended."

"That doesn't seem that bad."

"I called him a bastard when I was four."

"Ah,"

"He tried to give me a hug," Emma shrugged, "I didn't want a hug, not from him – I didn't like him to touch me, he always felt like a stranger. I knew the word wasn't nice, so I called him it. Our relationship is still very much the same now, hence the going out and not speaking to the two of them."

Sherlock nodded, "Understandable," He said, once again placing his hands lightly on the arms of his chair.

"Is it?" Emma asked.

"Perfectly – I used to wander the town until the early hours myself as a teenager. The release from bickering was a welcome change."

Emma smiled a small smile. It was nice to know that they had something other than the obvious in common, even if it was distant and trivial. The two sat in silence again and, though neither said it, they enjoyed each other's company for the first time since they had met. Emma was waiting for the result of Sherlock's most recent deduction, and didn't have to wait long,

"Emma Stoneheart: Independent, musical, fragile." He sounded triumphant, and drummed his fingers on the chair's arms twice.

"Fragile?" Emma was faintly offended, which came across in her raised voice.

"You're worried. Certain things – certain _people_ –" He added carefully, "they worry you."

"That still doesn't explain why I'm fragile," Emma drew her legs back up onto the sofa, retreating back into her former, curled up position, as if she was losing interest in the conversation; however, Sherlock could tell that she was not.

"That worry can be exploited – you would break without an ounce of pressure, I'm sure."

Emma scoffed, suddenly becoming angry with the detective, who sat there looking innocent as if he had no idea what he was saying, "And why is that? How can you be so sure I couldn't hold up under pressure?"

"I'm sure you can in most situations. But that pressure coupled with all of that worry, tucked away at the back of your mind... I can't be the first to have noticed. You're fragile, Emma; you're like a coronet – unbreakable to most but, when the right people come along to steal you away, you'll be broken in the struggle for the prize..." He trailed off.

Emma's head was filled with a whole manner of images. She had considered what it was that worried her, and she could not pinpoint it until Sherlock mentioned the coronet – it was Moriarty. Though she did not know why, he struck fear into her very core whenever he was mentioned. She felt cold – the sensation flooding over her body as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over her head – and shuddered. She was the coronet – the prize that they were fighting for, though she did not yet know who Moriarty's opponent would be, or why he wanted her, but she was sure it wouldn't be good.

This had all started when Moriarty had stolen the Crown Jewels, and now he was after another prize, for whatever reason he had.

_"Honey, you should see me in a crown_..."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped back up to look at her. Emma was suddenly conscious of the fact that she had been muttering under her breath.

"I said, um, I'm going upstairs." She picked up her book and left the room before Sherlock could process what she had said, closing her bedroom door and sitting with her back to it.

She closed her eyes and sighed, before standing and making her way over to her stereo and turning it on.

_'And now I know how Joan of Arc felt, now I know how Joan of Arc felt / As the flames rose to her Roman nose and her Walkman started to melt'_

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><p>"Client."<p>

It was the second week of the new year, and the street outside was beginning to ice over after the snowy spell that had occurred in the previous week. Emma had just got in from school, confused to see a woman sat in her usual spot on the sofa, cradling a shoebox in her arms. John and Sherlock were sat in their usual armchairs, listening. She was just about to ask who the woman was when Sherlock spoke.

"OK," Emma nodded, "do you want me to leave or-?" She indicated to the door behind her with her thumb over her shoulder.

"No, no," Sherlock gestured toward the table by the window, in lieu of an invitation to sit down. Emma took his offer and sat, a mug of tea that had cooled to the perfect temperature in front of her.

"Thanks," She directed the comment towards John, as she expected it was him who had made her it, as she picked up the mug. John shook his head and laughed quietly, which was odd.

"Susan Cushing has just received two severed ears in the post," Sherlock told Emma brightly, as she took a sip of the tea.

Emma swallowed the tea and nodded toward the woman, "And she brought them with her?" She asked, faintly disgusted.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, as if this was all perfectly normal, "They've been packed in salt, and so are very well preserved. If you can prise it out of her grasp you could have a look."

"I'll pass thanks." Emma placed the mug down on the table and slumped forward, leaning on her arm, fist under her chin.

The woman, Susan, cleared her throat loudly. Sherlock directed his gaze back towards her,

"Go on," He prompted.

"Well, I teach at the University of Greenwich, one of the medical courses. I had to dismiss three students due to their... inappropriate behaviour," She paused, her fingers drumming on the top of the box in a nervous manner. She seemed to be avoiding Sherlock's gaze, "I'm not sure, but I think it could have been them – a prank, you understand, to get back at me."

Sherlock nodded slowly, but looked as if he wasn't listening. He stood suddenly and took the box from her,

"Belfast?" He asked, squinting at the markings on the top left of the box.

"That's where they were from." Susan explained.

Sherlock pulled off the lid of the shoebox, which had been taped closed with brown packing tape. He placed it down on the table next to Emma as he put on a pair of gloves, and Emma glanced in at the contents. Two ears, yes, but not from the same person – only one was pierced and the other was much larger than the first – which had been hacked off, seemingly, with great difficulty. Emma took another sip of her tea as Sherlock took one of the two ears from the box and examined it, then turned his attention to the salt in the box.

"This hasn't been done by medical students," He said, dropping the ear back in the box, "The contents of this box are evidence of a serious crime."

Sherlock replaced the lid and began reading the sides of the box, looking at the size and style of the shoes that had been bought in it.

"What do you mean?" Susan asked, her fingers twisting together in her lap, her eyes widened with shock.

Sherlock had begun sniffing the contents of the box, and replied with his nose still inside of it, "Medical students would have been able to remove these ears with much more precision," He emerged from the box, his nose crinkled in disgust, "Also they'd probably have access to salt that didn't smell of fish."

"So, are you saying..?" Susan trailed off, seemingly too scared to finish the sentence.

"There's been a murder? Yes, I believe he is." Emma took another gulp of tea and gave the woman what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"There's a spelling error in the address," Sherlock continued, "So the sender wasn't familiar with the Greenwich area – the handwriting also suggests that they're probably _not_ intelligent enough to get into a medical course." He placed the box back on the table.

"That's not much to go on," John commented.

"Yes, John, thank you." Sherlock sounded irritated, but continued analysing the box, "The shoes that used to be in this box were sturdy – work boots - suggests that the killer did manual labour; something that required a lot of standing and harsh conditions. The location of sending and the general smell of damp and fish suggest they work at the coast, or at sea – possibly the fishing industry."

Emma felt quite overwhelmed – that was a lot to get from just one box. She couldn't have got past 'ears' in the amount of time Sherlock had been studying the item. She took another sip of tea, feeling rather inadequate.

"If – If this is evidence of a murder, shouldn't we get the police?" Susan sounded slightly manic, and Emma felt a bit sorry for her; some people just weren't born to be involved in crime.

Sherlock sighed, and looked as if he were about to brush off her question, but John interrupted, pulling his phone out of his pocket,

"An excellent point," He looked pointedly at Sherlock, "I'll get Greg."

John left the room to call the detective, leaving Sherlock looking considerably more annoyed than he had previously.

"Mr Holmes," Susan started carefully, "If someone's murdered someone... why would they send this to _me_? I haven't any enemies – I've never argued with anyone in my life!"

Sherlock brushed off the remark, "It wasn't for you. Do you have any sisters?"

The seemingly random question took the girl by surprise, "Um, yes – Sarah and Katie - why?"

"There – The parcel was addressed to a 'Miss S Cushing' – your sister, Sarah. I assume you lived in the same house until recently?"

"We had to kick her out two months ago," Susan explained, "But why would they send her that? She's never been involved in anything of the –"

"Everyone has secrets, Susan," Sherlock interrupted, "It's time we unearthed them."

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><p><strong>AN - there are a few of you who are following but not reviewing, it would be nice if you would :(**


	8. Chapter 8 - Dust on the Ground

**A/N - this new chapter's a bit short, but it was the best i could do - i've not been feeling too great at the moment and so the writer's block has kicked in. anyhoo, emma's moving to mycroft's for a few days, and isn't very happy about it.**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 8 – Dust on the Ground<span>**

Lestrade arrived to question the woman an hour later, and together he and Sherlock found out that Sarah, Susan's sister, was now living in Liverpool, and had decided that it would be best for them to travel to question her.

"Cool, so do I get the rest of the week off?" Emma asked brightly. She had migrated to John's armchair while the doctor had been calling Lestrade, and leant forward, resting her forearms on her knees in front of her, hands clasped together.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly, "You can stay with Mycroft."

Emma was about to protest when he interrupted her, "I truly am _very _sorry, I wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy; however, Mrs Hudson is away and laws must be obeyed. You can't skip school."

"Since when have you cared about the _law_?" Emma scoffed, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock, who glanced at Lestrade,

"I have the upmost respect for the rules of the land." He looked as if he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Yeah, alright," Greg sounded irritated. He turned back to Susan, who was still sat on the sofa looking exceptionally uncomfortable, "Your sister's gonna be home tomorrow, right?"

"Well no," Susan said cautiously, "She's in the hospital up there – you see she's, well, a bit mad, to be honest."

"That's quite offensive," Emma commented quietly.

Susan looked over to her and corrected herself quickly, her words stumbling, "Well no, not mad, she was just – she's been diagnosed with post traumatic stress, y'know – a few months ago Katie's husband attacked her; something about his marriage breaking down or something. Sarah's kind of been in a bad way ever since. They admitted her to hospital a few days ago."

Emma lost interest in the conversation and sat back in the armchair, closing her eyes to shut out the scene from her mind. _Mycroft_. She had only met the man once, and that conversation hadn't lasted two minutes in total, but she already knew that she wasn't going to enjoy herself. Sherlock had filled her in on the details about him – he held some minor position in the government, and was very uppity about it; he was on a diet, usually, but had a weakness for cake; and he was incredibly childish. Emma could have told Sherlock the last one herself, after the way he acted when they met.

The thought of having to spend at least two days in his company was almost unbearable. The only positive of the situation was that Mycroft was rich, and so he probably had a huge house, which meant that if she was careful she could spend her entire time in the same building without bumping into him once. She hoped that this was the case – she may just have to kill herself otherwise.

Susan left, taking the ear box with her, followed quickly by Lestrade. Emma hopped out of the armchair and immediately sat in her spot on the sofa as soon as it was vacant, though it was uncomfortable and warm, which was irritating. Susan had an odd shaped body and had squashed the cushions into all the wrong shapes, and Emma made a face before turning to John, who had also collapsed into his usual spot,

"Why do _you _have to go?" She asked – if John stayed at 221B then she wouldn't have to holiday at the eldest Holmes' house and, although he was simple and a little dull, he was better than Mycroft.

John paused, his brow furrowing. He looked confused, as usual, "To be honest, I don't know," He indicated to Sherlock, who had sat at the kitchen table and was currently staring into space, probably thinking about something Emma's 'tiny mind' couldn't comprehend, "He usually insists."

"Could you skip this one? Please?" Emma leant forward slightly, raising her eyebrows and smiling.

John laughed at her, picking up the newspaper from the table next to him and opening it, "Emma, there's no way you can get out of this, you know that, right?"

Emma sighed, falling back into the sofa cushions exasperatedly, "That doesn't mean I can't try."

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><p>Mycroft's 'people' arrived precisely four minutes and thirty seconds after Sherlock and John left – timing that had obviously been planned beforehand to avoid any <em>talking<em>. Mycroft himself didn't bother to turn up, which struck Emma as a very arrogant and showy thing to do – very '_oh look at me with my flash car and my servants I don't even have to leave the house to collect you_' – Emma disliked show offs, which, she admitted, was rather hypocritical.

Emma opened the door to a woman in a business suit, who didn't look up from her phone to acknowledge her; she just stepped back and opened the back door of a pristine black car. The windows were dark and didn't offer Emma any idea as to who might be in there with her but she got in regardless of the fact that no one had introduced themselves. The woman slipped into the seat next to her and closed the car door, tapped the glass of the window once and then put her phone down. The car set off without any spoken command.

The woman turned to Emma, "Anthea, and you are?"

Emma almost laughed, "That's not your real name," She raised an eyebrow, "Annie."

"And _that's _not yours," She laughed lightly – a vain, self indulgent laugh – and went back to her phone, "We do have transcripts of every conversation you've had since you came to London, you know."

Emma didn't like this woman, she decided, and so she remained silent for the remainder of the car journey, choosing to listen to her iPod instead of making conversation.

_'I await your call; I await your crown / let's change our roads and chase them all around'_

Mycroft's house was even grander than Emma had expected it to be. Miles outside of London, the house was surrounded by a vast area of greenery, all of which seemingly belonged to her uncle. The house itself was massive – much too big for one man on his own – and lavishly decorated; the Edwardian architecture complimented with modern furniture which created an odd harmony, but one that was quite beautiful.

Maybe his position in the government wasn't as minor as Sherlock had led her to believe.

Anthea left Emma in what she had decided must be the entrance hall, drifting off through a door, stating "He's at work; he'll be back at ten. Don't go in any rooms with closed doors." The door she had just gone through was then shut.

Emma raised her eyebrows and looked around – everywhere was closed. _Everywhere_. She considered setting up camp in the hallway until she decided to check upstairs, where there was one open door.

It was a small guest room, with a single bed in the corner and a desk by the door. There was an en suite bathroom and a large window on the far wall. Emma moved to look out of it, the sunlight glaring against her skin – it offered a view of the motorway slicing through the green horizon; a scar on the skin of the landscape, the modern world bleeding from the old. She sighed and dropped her backpack on the bed, not moving her gaze from the road.

The city was too far away – she disliked the slowness of the country, and craved the bustle of London. There were no people to watch and deduce things about, no cases to solve (or even to watch other people solve, which was more like what usually happened), there were just fields and trees and the occasional fox. That was no fun. It was too quiet – she had become used to hearing sirens and cars and the yells of drunks as they passed by 221B at all hours of the day and night. There was no such thing as silence in the city – in the country it was all too real.

Her fingers tapped idly against the glass – the sound of her nails against the surface breaking the quiet for a moment – before she moved over to the desk, where a stereo and a small stack of books had been set. Emma inspected them quickly before deciding that they had been placed there specifically for her, though she wasn't sure how Mycroft had known what her favourite books were – every title in the room was in her top twenty.

She shrugged and plugged her iPod into the stereo, resuming the album she had been listening to whilst ignoring "Anthea" in the car, then selected_ The Book Thief_ from the stack and collapsed onto the bed.

She lost herself in the words, hours ticking by in what seemed like minutes as she read, until she suddenly felt as if someone was watching her. She lowered the book to her chest and peered over the volume at the doorway, where Mycroft was stood. Emma sat up, and said nothing. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, before her uncle spoke,

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." He shared the same bored tone as Emma and her father did, and possessed the ability to, no matter what expression his face showed, always look as if he didn't give a shit about what was going on at all.

"Formality is boring." Emma said simply, closing the book and placing it on the windowsill, before standing. Mycroft's eyes followed the book,

"I assume you were enjoying that?" He asked, though Emma was sure that he wasn't assuming, he just _knew_. Mycroft made his way over to the window and picked up the book, inspecting the cover, "I never understood the appeal of fiction, myself."

"Escapism," Emma answered, taking the book from his hand almost bitterly, "Fiction appeals to people who don't like the world they see around them, people who want to get away to somewhere better and pretend that it's real, or to somewhere worse, to show us that we're actually pretty alright where we are."

"And that's why you read, is it," Mycroft's voice held a note of disgust, "to _escape_?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand anyway," She dropped the book onto the bed behind her, before holding out her hand for her uncle to shake, "Emma Stoneheart."

Mycroft looked at her hand for a moment, before gripping it, "Mycroft Holmes; I thought you didn't uphold formalities?" He raised an eyebrow in much the same way that Emma did when she felt triumphant.

"You look like the type who does. I thought I would conform."

They let go of each other's hands and Mycroft nodded at her once, before making his way out of the room. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to her,

"I'll have a car ready to take you to school at seven thirty tomorrow," He said, "Just ask someone downstairs for food if you get hungry."

"Oh, I don't eat very much."

Mycroft smirked at her reply, and Emma tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed, "What?"

"It's nothing – you just remind me of my brother, that's all."

He left, closing the door behind him, and Emma sat back down on her bed, picking up the book and flicking through the pages with her thumb. Maybe her uncle wasn't as entirely awful as she had previously thought.

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><p><strong>AN - reviews cure writer's block - it's a fact**


	9. Chapter 9 - Dog Days Are Over

**A/N - yo new chapter woah its super long - also it should make annabel happy bc seb**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 9 – Dog Days Are Over<span>**

Oliver's bedroom was small and cramped, and had clearly not been decorated since he had moved into the children's home when he was seven. The wallpaper was littered with images of cowboys; however it had since been covered with posters of Tarantino films and _Doctor Who _characters, which Emma had been impressed with. The two of them were sat on the floor, legs crossed, playing Cheat and throwing playing cards down on the carpet. The game was for three players, and so they had been forced to recruit a seven year old girl whose name Emma had forgotten, and who did not seem to understand the game.

"No, Lucy," Oliver was explaining, picking up the cards she had just put down on the pile and slipping them back into her hand, "This turn you have to put down an Ace – _face down_."

The little girl's brow furrowed and she looked up at Oliver, "But I don't have any Aces." She said. Emma sighed,

"Couldn't we get that thirteen year old instead?"

"Don't be rude, Emma," Oliver shot her a warning look, "Lucy's just learning, that's all."

Emma put her cards down on the carpet, then got to her feet, "Teach her later, I'm bored."

The girl, Lucy, leant into Oliver and whispered, "I don't like her, she's mean."

Oliver patted the girl's arm, glancing up at Emma with a smirk on his face, "She is, isn't she – to be honest, that's _why_ I like her."

Emma mimed vomiting, "You're adorable," Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and she raised her eyebrows at the boy, "Tell the kid to go away."

Lucy whined loudly, which was irritating, "But _I _want to play! Tell _her _to go!" She was clutching Oliver's arm tightly and her face was getting increasingly red, as if she was going to cry.

"Sorry, Lucy, you heard the woman," He stood up, then offered the girl a hand so that she could scramble to her feet, a pout on her chubby face, "I'll teach you once she's gone."

"Promise?" The girl offered Oliver her hand, her pinkie finger extended. The boy linked his own finger with hers and smiled,

"Pinkie promise; now, bugger off."

The little girl gasped, "I'm going to tell Jamie you swore at me! And that you've got a girl in your room!" She said, her voice accusing. Oliver rolled his eyes,

"Jamie already knows that Emma's here, and if you tell him that I swore I will tell him that you spent all of your lunch money on sweets last week."

"That's not as bad as having a _girlfriend_." The girl crossed her arms. Emma raised her eyebrows and glanced at Oliver, whose cheeks burned a furious red,

"Emma is my friend – just because _you_ aren't mature enough to have friends of the opposite gender without fancying them doesn't mean I'm not." He said all of this much too quickly. Emma smirked; he was bad at hiding things.

"Only lies have explanations, Oliver." She half whispered to him, holding back laughter.

"Shut up," He snapped, "Get out," He directed this to the girl, who left singing:

"Oliver fancies Emma," over and over in her tiny, sing song voice.

Oliver coughed loudly, then sat back down on the floor, "I do not."

Emma laughed at him, "Yeah, okay, and I don't have a huge crush on Jack Steadman."

"I have no idea who that is." Oliver admitted after a pause – his face had begun to return to its normal colour, though he still looked rather flustered.

"Did I not give you Bombay Bicycle Club?" Emma moved over to search through the pile of CDs she had leant her friend, the cases clacking against each other noisily, "Dammit," She glanced back at him where he sat on the floor, "How many of these have you got through so far?"

He shrugged, "I've only listened to three, I think. I don't like Eels, they're weird. Florence and the Machine are alright, though – that's in the stereo at the moment."

Emma sat on the floor opposite him, having turned on the CD player, crossing her legs and leaning her elbows on her knees, resting her head on her hands. The pair were silent for a few moments, the music playing quietly in the background, as Emma watched him. He was embarrassed, still, about the little girl – his body language had become more closed and he sat hugging his knees into him, hiding his face behind them – but happy that Emma wasn't mentioning it any further. He did look slightly worried, however.

"Are you deducing me?" He asked, moving his head so that it rested on top of his knees.

Emma raised her eyebrows, "Certainly not, that would be improper grammar – I am deducing _things about _you."

"I don't think I want to know what you're thinking."

"You probably don't." Emma sat up straight and stretched her arms out in front of her, yawning, "This song is so good."

Oliver glanced at the stereo for a moment, and then back to Emma, who had closed her eyes and begun humming along,

_'The dog days are over, the dog days are done / the horses are coming so you better run'_

"It's alright." He commented, "I'm not sure about the lyrics, though."

Emma opened her eyes and looked at Oliver pointedly, "You like Pitbull."

"Point taken," He laughed; Emma raised an eyebrow triumphantly, then glanced at her watch.

"It's almost nine – it takes me 65 minutes to get back to Mycroft's, I better get going." She stood up, pinching her nose and screwing up her eyes to fend off a yawn. Oliver followed her in standing, and the two of them made their way down the stairs to the front door.

"See you on Monday, then?" Oliver had his hands in his pockets and still looked rather uncomfortable.

"Not really a question – we have school, of course you'll see me then."

Oliver laughed, "I guess, unless you're off to another crime scene."

"Well, there is always that," Emma smirked at him, then turned and opened the door, "Bye, then."

Oliver looked offended, "Do I not get a hug?"

Emma turned back to face him, a puzzled look crossing her face, "Since when have we hugged? I've never hugged anyone before."

"You've _never _hugged _anyone_?" Oliver looked genuinely shocked, his eyebrows raised.

"I don't like to be touched."

"That's a bit weird."

Emma shrugged her shoulders, shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat, "You have your opinions, I have mine," She looked out through the doorway to see a long, black car pulling up on the street, "My uncle's people are here, I have to go – it's weird the way they always turn up on time; I suspect he's listening or something."

"That's maybe just a little unsettling," Oliver commented, glancing past her at the car, "Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Yeah, bye." She smiled at the boy, who grinned back, and then left, pulling the door shut behind her. Emma was beginning to like him, she thought, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever truly liked anyone before. Yes, he was a bit thick and slightly irritating, but he enjoyed her company – possibly the first person ever to do that – and more than that, he _actually fancied _her.

All of this was very new to Emma, but it made her grin as she climbed into the back of Mycroft's car regardless.

"You look happy," Anthea commented as Emma pulled on her seatbelt.

"You don't."

* * *

><p>"And what time do you call this?"<p>

Emma raised her eyebrows at Mycroft Holmes, who sat in an armchair by the living room window, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Not even my mother asks me that anymore," Emma glanced at her watch, "And it's called 10 o'clock, Mike."

Her uncle sighed, "My name is _Mycroft_. Would it pain you to call me that?"

"Maybe – why risk it?" Emma smirked at him, "Anyway, you knew where I was."

"You never told me."

"Yeah, but you knew."

Mycroft nodded, "Admittedly, yes, but it would have been nice if you had let me know personally."

"I knew there was no point – it would be inefficient to travel all the way out here only to tell you something you already knew, and then have to take another hour drive back to Oliver's."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, "You like that boy?"

Emma shrugged, "He's alright," She tried to hide the smile that threatened to break through onto her features, but Mycroft noticed.

"You care about him, don't you?" His face seemed to be daring her to lie to him, just so that he could rip her apart with deductions. Emma wasn't about to oblige him.

"Maybe I do – I don't see why that concerns you, though."

Mycroft stood, his palms smoothing the front of his suit slightly, and looked pointedly at her, "Caring is not an advantage, Emma; keep that in mind."

"You might be able to go through life feeling nothing for no one but not all of us are machines – some of us can experience emotion, Mycroft, and some of us _value _them."

"Emotions are an inconvenience that I choose not to be hindered by." Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets, his voice flat and his face dark.

Emma's own voice was tainted with contempt, "Maybe if you chose to be held down by them you'd understand why caring about people is a good thing."

"How would you know what caring is," Mycroft asked, taking a step towards Emma, "When no one's ever cared about you?"

Emma just stared; her stomach twisting and making her feel sick. She felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her head – the truth washing over every inch of her body; trickling down the back of her neck and making her shiver. Mycroft said nothing else; a triumphant smile etched on his face as he stared at her. Emma suddenly felt very young – all delusions of adulthood wiped from her mind – and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep tears from forming in her eyes because he was right. He was so right. The only person who ever cared about her she had run away from, and she doubted she would ever see her mother on good terms again, given that the last time they had spoken in person both of them had been screaming at each other.

Mycroft didn't seem to care that he had upset her; in fact he seemed rather pleased with himself. He smirked as she watched her leave the room at a half-run, and didn't follow her to apologise. Emma spent the rest of the evening in her room, praying for the next day to come quicker so that she could finally go home, back to 221B, where the people only _thought _horrible things about her, and didn't feel the need to vocalise them.

* * *

><p>A month had passed since Susan had brought her ear box to 221B, and since then there had been no cases for Sherlock to solve (it had been the sister's husband all along, apparently – he had killed Katie and the man she had been having an affair with and sent their ears to Sarah, the other sister, as he blamed her for the breakdown of his marriage). This had led to a lot of sulking, possibly more sulking than Emma had seen before in her life, and she had a younger brother. Sherlock spent the majority of the time sitting in his armchair, a pout on his face, snapping at anyone who dared to speak to him.<p>

Monday mornings were slow and lazy at 221B Baker Street at the best of times, but when there were no cases to solve they were even more so. Emma was always the first awake, rolling out of bed at half past five, spending at least an hour reading before Sherlock joined her for Mrs Hudson's morning tea at seven o'clock (though he still hadn't noticed that she was the one who left it – he insisted that it just happened no matter how many times she told him that, no, she had _seen_ Mrs Hudson put it there).

Emma was lying on the sofa with her legs dangling over the arm lazily when the doorbell rung at a quarter to eight – signalling that Oliver had arrived and she had to go to school. Sighing loudly and causing Sherlock to tut at the disturbance to the silence, she sat up and span around on the spot so that she could hop off of the seat, before picking up her backpack and unhooking her coat.

She shot a quick, "See you later," to Sherlock (he tutted again in response) before making her way down to meet her friend at the door, pulling her coat on and slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

"Hiya," Oliver grinned at her when she pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold February air. Emma shoved her hands into her pockets to protect them from the chill, directing a greeting at the boy, her breath turning to light vapour as it left her mouth. She was taken back momentarily to playing dragons with her mother when she was very young, but then was pulled out of her thoughts very quickly when they returned to Mycroft and what he had said to her but a few weeks ago.

'_No one's ever cared about you.'_

"Are you alright, you look pale?" Oliver looked concerned, and reached out to grab a hold of her arm before stopping himself. Emma shook her head slightly to clear it, sniffed and smiled at him,

"Yeah, I'm fine - I'm always pale, you idiot." She half punched him in the arm jokingly, "We need to get a move on or we'll be late."

They arrived at school with only a few minutes until the morning bell. Both had chemistry with Miss Cross first thing, Emma's favourite class. She was happy that she had it first on a Monday because, if it was anything else, she may not be able to drag herself out of bed.

However, as they entered the classroom, Emma found not Miss Cross, but Sebastian Moran reclining behind the desk in the same ill fitting, cheap suit he had worn the day he tripped over her outside of Moriarty's trial. Emma froze, causing Oliver to walk into her.

"Woah," He took a step back, "What's up?"

She turned back to the boy, who frowned at the sight of the look on her face, "He's not qualified to be wearing that suit." She said shortly, before making her way to her seat. Oliver paused where he stood; looking puzzled, before shooting her an odd look and sitting in his allocated seat – across the classroom from Emma.

She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, holding it in her lap under the table, and sent Oliver a text,

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:32 5/2/12 – His name is Sebastian Moran; works for Moriarty as an assassin_

After she pressed send she looked up at Oliver, who caught her eye and nodded, taking his own phone from his inside pocket and hiding it below the desk. A few moments later the screen of Emma's mobile lit up,

_Oliver Roberts – 8:33 5/2/12 – An assassin? Shit. And what's Moriarty?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:33 5/2/12 – Yep. Crown Jewels guy._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:34 5/2/12 – That guy who had tea at your house? What, is he following you?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:34 5/2/12 – Good deduction. That's one possibility, though I'm not sure I want to know why he is._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:35 5/2/12 – How are you typing so fast that is really unsettling_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:36 5/2/12 – Is that really what you're planning to take from this conversation? Also there should have been some punctuation in that last text, I'm sure._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:37 5/2/12 – You're never happy, are you?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:37 5/2/12 – Thank you for the punctuation._

* * *

><p>Sebastian Moran 'taught' their chemistry lessons for the next two weeks, leading many members of the class to speculate where on earth Miss Cross was. The majority of the students seemed to think that she was ill, or had been involved in some awful scandal, but Emma believed that something more sinister was afoot – she just prayed Moriarty and Moran had only kidnapped her and not murdered her, or tortured her in some horrible way. Oliver had waved off her theories, claiming that nothing serious could have happened to her or the school would have found a proper replacement, as opposed to a substitute; though she tried to explain that the school would have no idea if Miss Cross had been murdered by the consulting criminal and his sidekick.<p>

_Oliver Roberts – 9:23 19/2/12 – She'll be back next week, alive and well, I guarantee it._

_Emma Stoneheart – 9:23 19/2/12 – Have you checked Moriarty's wall chart or something? How do you know when she'll be back?_

_Oliver Roberts – 9:25 19/2/12 – I was just trying to make you feel better, for God's sake._

A few seconds later Emma's phone vibrated again, and she opened a text from John (Sherlock never bothered to get in touch with her),

_John Watson – 9:25 19/2/12 – Got a case. Kidnapping. Should be back by seven – there're takeaway menus on the kitchen table._

_Emma Stoneheart – 9:26 19/2/12 – Received loud and clear, Captain._

_John Watson – 9:27 19/2/12 – Please stop calling me that._

Emma smirked and went to slip her phone back into her pocket; however it was swiped from her grasp by someone stood behind her.

"You can get this back at the end of the class." Moran's voice was much harsher than it had been when he had been playing Seb From The Jury on the day of the trial, and he did not smile like he had before. He put the phone in his blazer pocket as Emma raised an eyebrow at him,

"There are only two minutes and ten seconds left of this lesson," She smirked, "What an effective punishment."

Moran muttered something under his breath as he moved back to the front of the class, asking everyone to pack up their things ready to leave for next period. Emma looked over to Oliver, who was laughing at her comment to the assassin, and winked. As the rest of the class left, Oliver lagged behind, waiting for her to get her phone back and join him on his way to maths, however,

"Roberts, can you leave please?" Moran phrased it as a question; however his tone of voice told Oliver it was a command. Emma watched him leave with a feeling of dread in her stomach – this had obviously been Moran's plan all along; get her alone and then... what? Kidnap her? Kill her? She didn't know, but she wasn't feeling too excited about it. Moran brushed past her on his way to the teacher's desk, then turned to face her, a smirk on his face.

"So, can I have my phone back?" Emma asked nervously, "I have maths, so –"

"Oh, Annie, have you not noticed yet?" Moran asked; the use of her false identity made Emma flinch.

"Noticed what?" She asked, but then she realised – her vision started to blur and she was overcome with dizziness, "Oh, shit... what's going on?" She steadied herself on a desk, but knew she wouldn't stay awake for long. Glancing at her arm, Emma noticed a syringe hanging from the fabric of her coat – she had been drugged. She was going to collapse. Was she going to die? Her breathing started to quicken as she started to panic. Her legs gave way. The room was spinning so quickly that she felt sick.

As she fell to the floor, her head hit against the leg of the desk she had been leaning on. The sound of the impact rattled in her brain, echoing and swimming through her head. Blackness seemed to ripple from where it had hit, darkening the room around her. Emma's body began to shake, and her eyelids drooped.

And then she was asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN - oh wow the plot kicked in p fast at the end there. reviews would be fab as heck.**


	10. Chapter 10 - Shock Shock

**A/N - this chapter turned out a lot longer than i expected. and it turned out a bit different from what i planned, but i think this way will benefit the story in the long run. a lot of shit happens, and i hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 10 – Shock Shock<span>**

_Well I enter a cave with my wrists sticking out / The soles of my feet worn down to a dusty mess / I'll stay numb to these accidents_

* * *

><p>Emma's head felt numb and her thoughts swam slowly around her mind – disjointed and faded. She felt distant, as if her mind was independent from the heavy body which lay on the ground.<p>

On the ground, why had she been sleeping there again?

She recalled Moran and the drugs after a moment, and remembered the reason why, albeit slowly. There was something there, in the back of her mind; she could feel something - something in her side. Pain? That seemed to be a possibility but she wasn't entirely sure. It seemed to become sharper and her brain started to kick in – thoughts becoming more coherent with every second that went by. She felt less distanced from her body – as if her thoughts were beginning to belong to her again – and felt a heavy kick in her side.

She was suddenly very awake, though her eyes would not open and she could not move her limbs; they were too heavy and she was too weak. She could hear her blood pumping and she felt as if someone was crushing her head in a vice. Another kick to her ribs made her groan and shift her body so that she was on her side, folded in the middle to protect herself. Her head was swimming and she felt nauseous, groaning as she screwed up her eyes before forcing them open, blinking against the light – so bright that she could see nothing but whiteness, and a silhouette, hazy in the glow.

The light spinning in her eyes only increased her queasiness, and Emma was overcome with a want to vomit. She felt a boot connect with her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and obliging her wish. Her assaulter stamped down on her side, fracturing ribs. Emma cried out and rolled forwards, her hair dragging in the pool of sick she had just left on the floor. Another stamp on the back of her knee brought tears to her eyes, sharp pain shooting through her leg.

"That's enough, Sebastian."

The voice was far away, and as smooth as silk. It had an undertone of boredom, the Irish accent as sinister as it had been when its owner had been sipping tea in Emma's front room. There were footsteps coming closer to her, but Emma refused to move; lying face down on the ground, her limbs pulled into her body, shaking violently.

"Wakey wakey, Annie," His voice was high and jovial, "Rise and shine!"

Strong arms grabbed her by the back of her coat and pulled her up from the floor, forcing her to face her captor. Jim Moriarty grinned as Sebastian Moran set Emma on her feet, and the girl whimpered.

"I've been looking forward to this," Moriarty slipped his hands into his pockets, taking a few steps towards Emma, his voice becoming more deflated, "Ever since that day I tested you – of course you knew that was what I was doing. Oh, I've been counting down the days..." He shrugged his shoulders, another grin plastered over his features, "It's like our second date! I'm glad your dad isn't here this time, though; given who I've invited it might've got a bit awkward..."

Panic began to set in – Emma's mind started working at triple speed, going over every possible situation she may be faced with in her head, trying to figure out solutions for each but to no avail – she couldn't do it, she wasn't like Sherlock, she wasn't as quick or as smart or as –

"Sebastian..." Moriarty drawled, and Emma felt the grip on the back of her coat release and saw Moran leave the room.

She quickly scanned her surroundings, trying to figure out where she could be. They had taken her to what looked to be a disused factory; chocolate production seemed the most likely use, due to the smell of stale cocoa that still hung in the air even after many years of closure. There was a large window on the far wall, through which daylight shone, creating a halo around the consulting criminal, who was silhouetted as he stepped forward. He was uncomfortably close, a smile still teasing his lips. When he spoke his voice was soft, and tainted with sarcasm,

"You're gonna love this, Annie, you know? I think this is the kind of show you'll really enjoy."

Emma recoiled as his breath brushed on her cheek, but her eyes hardened as she managed to speak, "It's _Emma._" Her voice was hoarse, which made her wonder how long she had been knocked out. From the achiness in her joints and the roughness of her throat she guessed around two days, but there was no way she could know for certain.

"Yeah," Moriarty drew his shoulders up, shrugging almost up to his ears, "But I like having our own little nicknames, don't you?" He spun away from her, throwing his arms out, "It's _fun _isn't it!?"

"That's one word for it." Emma's hands were shaking violently, and she flexed her fingers in an attempt to stop them as she raised her eyebrows at Moriarty.

A silence fell over the room as the two watched each other carefully, Moriarty rubbing his palms together seemingly absent-mindedly, until Moran returned, dragging something at his side. Moran's body obscured Emma's view, but she instantly recognised the voice that was squealing. She froze, her insides felt like ice.

That was her brother. Her ten year old brother.

The words spilled out of her mouth too quickly, her mouth tripping over them and stumbling to try to force them out fast enough, to stop them in time, "What are you doing? What are you going to do to him?" The two men ignored her, "_Stop it – STOP IT NOW_!"

She ran forward, throwing herself towards the boy, whose face was red and puffy but who was stood with his chest puffed out, _trying_ to be brave, _trying _to impress her. Just like he used to do when they were kids.

She was knocked back – a fist to her jaw – and dropped to the ground, her elbows smacking against the concrete floor. She yelped but scrambled back up to her feet, the pain in her jaw pulsating, her fractured ribs searing.

Throwing herself at Moran again, she heard her brother scream as he was thrown to the floor, discarded in favour of a new target. The assassin's hands gripped Emma's shoulders and threw her downwards, as he raised a knee which connected with her nose. She felt it break, the bones cracking loudly, and hot blood flowed from her face as she screamed and fell to the ground at Moran's feet. Her vision was blurring and darkening, her head heavy and throbbing. It took effort to raise her head, and she looked up at the three figures above her – Moriarty with his hands on her brother's shoulders, gripping them tightly, holding the boy up; her brother screaming, watching her with fear filled eyes, not understanding the world he'd been thrown into so quickly and without explanation; and Moran, grinning down at her for a second, then turning to the boy and taking something from his pocket.

Emma's head swam, her eyelids flickered.

She couldn't remember what happened next.

* * *

><p><em>"But I don't <em>want _a brother – I don't like children, they're stupid." Emma pouted and folded her arms across her chest, stamping her foot on the ground._

_The nurse laughed, sunny and airy, as if she was the very personification of a summer's day. She was blonde and pale skinned and looked like a princess, but princesses wore dresses so Emma decided she couldn't be one of those. Also princesses did their hair all fancy and curly like Sleeping Beauty but the nurse's hair was all messy and straggly. She didn't look like Sleeping Beauty, Emma thought._

_The nurse looked up at Daniel Stoneheart, "You've certainly got quite a girl there," She chuckled. Daniel looked uncomfortable for a moment,_

_"She's not mine." He answered shortly, glancing at Emma quickly before looking past the nurse at the door, "You said I could take her through?"_

_"I don't _want_ to go through."_

_"Shut up, Emma." Daniel snapped, placing a hand on her shoulder. Emma screeched and threw herself away from his grasp,_

_"DON'T TOUCH ME!" She yelled, lashing out to hit him back._

_The nurse looked rather disturbed, but continued in a shaky, but cheery, voice, "Are you sure she's ready to go though, sir? Your wife will need peace and quiet – I can arrange for someone to sit with –"_

_"That won't be necessary, thanks; she'll be quiet." Daniel finished by looking pointedly at the five year old, who squirmed,_

_"Mummy says she doesn't like peace and quiet," Emma said matter-of-factly, raising her eyebrows at Daniel._

_"No, Mummy's just never experienced anything else, thanks to you."_

_Emma tutted, but followed the pretty nurse and Daniel into the ward, where Mummy was sat up on a bed holding some blankets. Daniel kissed Mummy, which was gross, and started crying, but it was silly crying because he was happy. Emma wouldn't be happy if she had a baby, she would be very very angry because she would never have any money ever again. Mummy was always complaining about how much money Emma cost her._

_Mummy looked down at Emma, smiling in a way that Emma wasn't sure if she had seen her smiling before, and asked her, "Do you want to say hello to your little brother?"_

_"No, I would not." She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. Mummy looked cross,_

_"Why do you always have to act like this? You spoil everything!"_

_"Casey..." Daniel said soothingly. Mummy was quiet after that, and turned her attention to the baby that Daniel was now holding._

_A good hour later, the baby was put in a weird plastic cot next to Mummy's bed, and Emma was able to scramble onto a chair to look over the top of it._

_The baby didn't look like her at all – he looked like mummy but with brown eyes like Daniel and a chubby face. Emma didn't look like any of her family – they were all tanned and brown haired and she was marble white with huge black curly hair. Emma hoped her brother was like her, secretly, because then they could go on adventures like the Famous Five only there were only two of them and there were five in the Famous Five, but she supposed that didn't matter too much. They would be different from Mummy and Daniel, and everyone would wonder how they had had such wonderful and clever children, being so boring and silly themselves._

_"I hope you have hair like mine," She whispered to the baby, her tiny fingers gripping the rim of the crib, "And you should be clever too – otherwise I won't like you. Stupid people like Mummy and Daniel are boring." The baby squealed at her in response, his hands reaching up to grab at her hair, which dangled down into the cot like dark, tangled curtains around her face, casting the boy in shadow, "We don't like boring people do we?"_

* * *

><p>Screaming.<p>

She was... Screaming? Why? She couldn't remember, but she knew it was bad.

Her hands were at her face, covering her mouth, shaking – shaking _so much_. She couldn't stop them, she couldn't stop anything. She was crying and screaming and shaking and her face was bleeding thick hot blood all over her, flowing from her broken nose. She was crouched on the ground and she knew she wouldn't be able to move, her body was frozen like a statue, but still shivering. Never stopping. Her mind on full alert.

Her leg was hurting – she couldn't move her knee. Was it broken? She didn't think so but she couldn't tell for certain. Her ribs felt worse too; her lungs burnt with every breath she took, sharp pain stinging in her side.

There were voices, but they sounded muffled, as if they were all underwater. Her vision was blurred by tears but she saw someone bend down – someone whose hands were stained red, and grab a hold of her coat collar.

Emma was pulled up, only to be slapped, hard and sharp, across the face. The world span and whirled around her. The person's fist connected with her cheekbone, bringing her back to the conversation – forcing her senses to kick in once more,

"Shhh," The hands on her collar were gone, replaced by softer, more comforting ones which pulled her into their body and began stroking her hair. Emma couldn't pull away – as soft as the hands were their owner was strong, and could change his mind at any moment and snap her neck. She didn't want to pull away. She stopped screaming. For a moment, for some awful twisted reason, she felt safe.

"I'm sorry, Annie, I really am," Jim whispered in her ear, his fingers caressing her hair slowly, "But I had to, you know, I didn't want to but I _had_ to." His arms unwrapped themselves from around her, but he retained his grip on her shoulders, a reminder that she couldn't escape – a reminder that he was still there. Jim's eyes bore into her own, his face a facade of regret and sadness, but his eyes telling a very different story, "It's that dad of yours, you see? He's always in my way and, well, I needed to stop him. I knew that one day he would need you, and I just – I need him to not get the help he needs, okay?"

Emma shook her head, sobbing.

"No no no," He wiped a tear from her face, his voice soft, "Don't cry, this isn't your fault – it's all me, I'm just planning ahead." His last statement was spoken with a small laugh, "You see, everyone has a glass case in their mind, where their demons are kept – oh, mine was shattered a long time ago, but that's another story. These demons can see out, watching and absorbing everything you see, everything you hear. They retain it all, every little thing they know that they can use against you – every bad thing someone has ever said about you; every time you felt sad – and they sit and wait. Certain things crack the glass, things so terrible and so horrible that the demons _beg_ to escape; they bang on the glass, '_let me out, let me out!'_ and chip away at their casing."

Jim stepped back from her and his facade dropped, his expression turning cold and his hand slipping into his pocket and producing a penknife – the same one he used to carve the apple back at 221B two months ago, "We're giving them a little help. We're making sure yours escape at the right time," He was closer now, closer than he had been before, but this time the knife was at her face, the cool metal pressed against her cheek, "You know, memory is the key – you implant something in someone's brain so terrible that they repress it so that, when they eventually remember," The knife pierced Emma's skin, ripping down her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone, spilling more of her blood out onto her features, "the impact is so much that the case explodes," The blade was pressed deeper. Emma screamed, but Jim continued, "and the demons, well," Jim took back the knife, flicking it closed and slipping it back into his pocket, "they take over... And they break you."

He ended in a whisper, just inches from Emma's face, and lingered for a moment before moving back and nodding at Moran. Before she could move she was forced to the ground, a needle in her arm, and she blacked out once more.

* * *

><p><em>"Mum, did you have to bring me here? You know I'd be fine if you left me home alone overnight." Emma raised her eyebrows at her mother, who sighed and looked pointedly at her husband, before rolling her eyes and facing her daughter.<em>

_"Emma, I can't leave you at home because you are ten years old. You are a child. It's illegal for a start," She shook her head in an exasperated manner, "And you're always asking me if I actually have any friends, at least now I can show you."_

_"If they're your friends why haven't you spoken to them for seven years?"_

_"What?"_

_"When you got your invite you said 'Oh, it'll be so nice to see the old gang again.', because you hadn't seen them for seven years." Emma frowned, "I'm thirsty."_

_Casey sent Daniel to buy drinks, who took Emma's brother Andrew with him, leaving Emma and her mother to mingle. They spoke to several people who were clearly lying about the jobs that they possessed, but Emma kept her mouth shut just like Casey had told her to, but only because Emma had really wanted the new Harry Potter book and her mother had promised she would buy her it if she was good. _

_A man strolled up to Casey and began talking to her – he was tall and thin, with black hair and pale skin. He didn't even glance at Emma, who was rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet, swinging her arms by her sides, annoyed because everyone was talking over the song they were playing on the sound system. The man was wearing a silly coat, but that was stupid because it was really warm in the function room, so Emma asked him,_

_"Are you leaving soon?"_

_Emma's mother tutted, "Don't be rude, Emma," She snapped, "Apologise to Sherlock."_

_"That's a silly name," Emma screwed up her face and laughed, "And anyway I was only asking because he's wearing such a big coat and it's _really _warm in here."_

_The man narrowed his eyes at the girl for a moment, and Emma felt uncomfortable – like he could read her mind. He looked as if he was about to say something to Casey when the conversation was interrupted by a short, dumpy woman with brown hair and a floaty dress. She had slightly pink cheeks like she was drunk,_

_"Casey, I haven't heard from you in _ages_, darling!" She pulled Emma's mother into a hug, and Emma pulled a face. This was boring._

_"Well, you know, it was a bit hard to stay in touch after the move," Casey laughed, pulling back from the short woman, "We can't come back an visit as much as we'd like to." She gestured over her shoulder to the general area of the bar, where Daniel and Andrew had gone._

_"Oh, you'll have to tell me all about Scotland – but first!" The woman giggled and thrust her left hand out to Casey, wiggling her fingers to show off a silver ring on her third finger. The two women squealed happily, whilst Emma and the man with the silly name looked rather uncomfortable. _

_After Emma got a good look at the ring, though, she knew the short woman was lying, and decided that she had had enough of being quiet (she could just get her grandma to buy her the book anyway)._

_"But that ring's plastic," Emma pointed to it, "You're lying. Why do so many people lie at these things?" She looked up at her mother for an answer, but only received an angry glare. Emma raised her eyebrows and said defensively, "But it _is_! You got them in those Christmas crackers you made us have last year even though they were boring and didn't have jokes. Grandma got the ring but it was too big for her finger." Emma folded her arms across her chest._

_Casey started apologising profusely to the short woman, but kept shooting angry looks at Emma, who only smiled back. She was happy with herself that she had done something to alleviate the boredom, and the silly-named man seemed happy too. He smirked at Emma, before turning and walking away through the crowd and out of the door._

_Emma knew he was planning to leave soon._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

Emma could hear someone shouting somewhere above her. Her head throbbed and her side ached. She groaned, wanting them to be quiet so that she could go back to sleep – she was so tired, so _very _tired – but they insisted on the shouting. They were shaking her shoulders now, which hurt. She tried to brush them away with her arm, but they only continued.

"Emma, wake up," It was John – what was he doing here? – he was shouting, he sounded upset, "Wake up – _SHERLOCK_ – Emma, for fuck's sake, open your eyes!"

Emma groaned, forcing her eyes open. She was lying on the ground again in the same factory as before, but the window on the far wall had been covered and it was dark, so she wasn't as disorientated as before, when the light had made her head spin. John was still shaking her shoulders, so she put a hand on his and pulled it off of her. Emma tried to sit up, but her ribs stung and she was forced to stay down – the pain searing in her side like it was on fire.

"What – What's happening?" She asked, her voice hoarse, but John wasn't listening, he was still shouting for Sherlock, "John, what's going on?"

He looked down at her, but his face told her that he didn't know.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock sounded irritated, as if he had been pulled away from something important, "Oh," A note of realisation, but he wasn't moving toward Emma, he was going in the opposite direction, towards some shape in the corner of the room. Three shapes.

"What – where are you going?" John got to his feet, facing the detective, who was crouched by the shapes in the corner of the room. Sherlock did not answer him, only got to his feet quickly, and made his way over to where Emma lay, unable to move, and knelt down next to her,

"Was he here?" He asked – his voice held a note of something odd. Sympathy? Emma frowned, and Sherlock shook his head, "Moriarty, was he here?"

Emma recoiled at the use of his name, to her own surprise, but nodded quickly.

Sherlock started at her for a moment, looking grave. There was a silence as John examined the things in the corner of the room, before Sherlock placed a hand on Emma's shoulder and said in a soft voice,

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what? What's _happened_ I don't – I don't remember!" Emma felt herself beginning to cry. She _knew_, though. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the answer long before anyone told her what had happened there.

Sherlock wasn't listening to her; he was facing John, his hand still on her shoulder, "Get Lestrade."

No one told her what happened until she was in a hospital bed, her ribs bound in several layers of bandages and the wound on her face stitched up. Greg was the one who said it, his face grey and sombre, and though she knew it was coming Emma was still not prepared to hear it.

Greg wrung his hands as he spoke. Sherlock was stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his face blank. John was in the chair by her bed, holding her hand – his grip tightened slightly as Lestrade told her the news.

"I'm very sorry to have to say this," He paused, prolonging the wait, raising the tension in the room, "but... Emma, your family are dead – we can't say anything for certain yet, but it looks as if they were murdered by the same person who, uh, attacked you."

Emma had expected to break down when he said it. She had expected to cry or to vomit or to lash out and attack someone. Instead she just nodded, her insides knotted, her thoughts becoming fuzzy like an old analogue television set when it couldn't pick up a signal. Greg sent her a single nod back, before turning to leave, muttering something about finalising a kidnapping case to Sherlock, who made a grunt of recognition, before he left.

A nurse, who had been stood in the corner of the room, and who looked solemn stepped forward, her hands linked behind her back. She addressed John, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask anyone who isn't a relative to leave." She looked genuinely apologetic, and John nodded at her,

"Okay," He directed his attention back to Emma, as if he was going to say something, but just shook his head and let go of her hand, before standing and leaving the room, shooting a glance at Sherlock as he left.

The nurse left Emma and Sherlock alone, though neither said anything. Sherlock moved over to the chair by her bed, but sat without looking at her, as if he couldn't bring himself to.

Emma remembered the dream she had had after the attack, about the university reunion almost six years ago, the day she had realised who Sherlock was. Emma wondered if he had known John back then, if he had known anybody that he knew now.

"Do you remember the day we met?" She asked him. Sherlock looked up at her, looking as puzzled as it seemed possible for him to look, "With that woman and her fake engagement ring?"

Sherlock paused, his eyes looking up to the right – searching his mind palace – before shaking his head, "I must have deleted it."

"You _deleted _me?" Emma supposed that she should have been hurt, but found herself laughing – her ribs aching.

Sherlock shrugged, "There's only so much room up here," He pointed at his head, "Need to keep room for the important things."

Emma smiled at him, "As long as you don't delete me again."

Sherlock directed his gaze to the doorway, "No," He didn't seem to be entirely paying attention anymore, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

He was still gazing out of the door, "I have to go – that kidnapping case... The kids were found in the same factory you were," He stood up, then turned back to look back at her, "Text John if you need anything."

Emma nodded at him, before he left the hospital. A few moments later the nurse returned, looking uncomfortable to have to interrupt Emma after hearing the news of her family's death.

"Um, someone just left this at the front desk for you – said their name was James?" She handed her a brown package, sealed with red wax.

"Thank you?" Emma was unsure, but took the package anyway. It was soft, and rustled when she moved it. She broke the seal and opened it, pouring the contents onto her bed in front of her.

Straw spilled out onto the sheets, along with something small and dark. Emma fished it out of the straw, holding it up to the light so that she could inspect it. It was a wolf, intricately carved from a dark wood, baring its teeth with its claws exposed.

The nurse looked startled, "I'll get someone to clear this up right away, just give me a –"

"That won't be necessary, thank you." Emma held up a hand to wave the nurse away, and set about scooping the straw back into the envelope. She set the wolf on the bedside table, and turned the envelope over in her hands, stopping as she noticed writing in tiny, capitalised letters in the top corner of the paper. She squinted to read it, and as she did she felt a fresh wave of fear wash over her, making her shiver and drop the envelope on the floor.

_'WHO'S AFRAID OF THE BIG, BAD WOLF?'_

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><p><strong>AN - omg, right?**

**can i get a review? please?**


	11. Chapter 11 - Strawberry Fields Forever

**A/N - yo sorry its two days late, hopefully the length will compensate for that. im not entirely sure about this chapter - i dont like it very much, but hey ho. i find it rather amusing that sherlock is emmas ice contact tho (in case of emergency, just fyi if you dont have that in your country)**

**anyway, enjoy, and please please please give me a review :)**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 11 – Strawberry Fields Forever<span>**

_Sun streamed in through the windows of 221B, the front room filled with a brightness that made Emma's head spin. She felt hazy, but maybe that was just because of how warm the room was. It was February, but somehow it was hot, and she felt sweaty and heavy, as if she was being boiled like a lobster. She was sat in John's armchair, watching the television, which was blank, though she didn't know why. She couldn't blink, couldn't take her eyes off of the screen. _

_The screen flickered. The edges were fuzzy but the image in the middle of the screen was clear. _

_Sherlock sat in his armchair, looking up at the camera. Emma recognised the video that Sherlock had sent to John for his birthday. The blogger had shown it to her in an attempt to make her laugh at Sherlock's awkwardness. Emma hadn't laughed then but she found herself giggling now. Giggling uncontrollably. Why was she doing that?_

_She stopped herself, frowning._

_Some unseen presence pressed play and the image began to move, saying the same words it always had,_

_"Hello, John," The screen flickered like the television was losing signal, which was impossible, "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, I'm very busy," The screen flickered again at the last word, and the sound became distorted. For a moment she swore she could hear _his_ voice, "However, many happy returns."_

_The screen went completely white for a split second, and when the picture came back it was blurred and flickering. Sherlock paused, his image fuzzy, before the screen came back into focus._

_But Sherlock wasn't there anymore. Jim was sat in Sherlock's chair, using his penknife to carve into a deep red apple. He was smiling, grinning up out of the television at her. Emma panicked, her breathing becoming faster._

_"Oh, and don't worry," He spoke the same words as Sherlock, but they drove fear into her, her stomach knotting, "I'm going to be with you again _very _soon." He winked; turning the apple so what he had been carving was visible on the screen._

WOLF

_Emma shivered. Jim only grinned wider and stabbed the penknife into the apple. Blood poured out of the wound, dripping down the fruit and covering Jim's hand with crimson. The screen went red and cracked down the middle. Emma was frozen, she couldn't move no matter how hard she tried. Something was running down from the cracked glass, leaving a trail behind it – something that shone in the sunlight. _

_Blood. The television was bleeding._

_She tried to turn her head, forcing it to the right to try to see what was happening around her. Her neck was stiff and her movement was jerked, but she managed to see the windows. They were open, the curtains whipping around them like there was a hurricane, and blood was pouring through them like a waterfall, splattering on the floorboards, splashing on the wallpaper. _

_Emma started hyperventilating, and forced her hands to move from the chair arms. Her feet felt wet and she looked down to see red liquid seeping up from the cracks between floorboards, soaking into her socks. _

_She fought against the invisible bonds pinning her to the chair and flung herself forward, crashing into the television and forcing it to the ground, the glass screen smashing and blood flowing from inside, coating her arms. _

_She was knee deep in it. It covered her hands and arms and soaked into her jeans. She couldn't breathe. She felt faint._

_She had to get out. She had to get out or she'd drown._

_Emma pulled herself up, using the broken television as support, and steadied herself. She turned towards the door, beginning to make her escape but found the exit blocked by a familiar face._

_Jim grinned at her, but said nothing, his eyes wide and his smile even wider. Emma screamed at him and he laughed. She waded through the blood – now up to her thighs – trying to reach the door, trying to reach Jim to wipe that twisted grin off of his face._

_She felt something grab at her ankles and kicked out behind her. There was something in the liquid, something that was trying to catch her. A hand gripped her leg and she fell, splashing down, becoming completely submerged. Blood covered her face, caught in her hair, swam in her mouth. She screwed her eyes up against it, her hands finding the floor and pushing herself back up. She was crying, tears leaving streaks in the red that was painted on her face. She couldn't breathe. All she could taste was blood._

_"Help me," She screamed it at Jim, spitting blood, "_Help me_!" The consulting criminal did nothing. He just smiled manically, his eyes bright._

_It was up to her waist, and the hands kept grabbing at her legs trying to pull her down as she waded toward the exit. She kicked at them, screamed at them to leave her alone but they persisted._

_Up to her chest – she was finding it hard to breathe and every move she made splashed the warm liquid into her face. She was barely a metre away from Jim but he did nothing, only stared. She balled her hands into fists, raising them out of the blood, pulling her right back and thrusting it forward, into his face, it was inches away as she screamed at him before –_

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><p>A hand caught her fist and she panicked, trying to pull it away from the body that was gripping her. She was awake now, she could tell, but she was too terrified to open her eyes. What if it was Jim? What if he had found her in the hospital? He obviously knew where she was after sending her the envelope the night before. She was hyperventilating, her lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen, her face was wet with tears. Someone was speaking to her but she couldn't hear the words, everything was muffled and nothing seemed real. The person let go of her hand and she felt them touch her face, forcing it up to face them.<p>

"Open your eyes," Their speech was short and the voice deep. It didn't sound like Jim, so who was it? "Emma, look at me."

Emma shook her head. She couldn't. She couldn't look up knowing that _he _could be there somewhere. He knew where she was. He was going to find her. He was going to find her and he was going to break her.

"Emma Stoneheart, listen to me," The voice was calm, but spoke quickly, "You are in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. It is five-seventeen and 51 seconds in the morning and there is no one here but me," There was a pause in which the owner of the voice sighed; "you're safe, you can open your eyes. He's not here."

Emma continued shaking her head, her movements small but fast. She was muttering under her breath, her body was shaking violently, "No no no," She muttered, bringing her hands up to cover her ears, "I don't believe you, I don't – he's always here, always watching, how does he know everything? Why won't he leave me _alone_? No, I don't – I can't believe you, just leave me alone, _please_ leave me alone."

"Emma, I am _not _leaving here until I am sure you're okay," the hand on her face moved and the person gently moved her hands from her ears, but did not let go of them, "look at me."

Emma stopped muttering, realising who the voice belonged to. The hands were cold and bony, but gripped her own softly. They weren't there to hurt her; they weren't going to mislead her.

They were all she had left.

She opened her eyes slowly, raising her head to look at her father. He looked concerned, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. The room was dark – lit only by the clinically white lights in the corridor outside – and quiet. Sherlock didn't speak, he seemed to be waiting until she said something first, the light from the corridor falling on a face in such a way that he looked much older. Emma's breathing slowed slightly, though still remained shaky, each breath rattling her body.

She glanced behind her, just to make sure he hadn't been lying, just to make sure that they were alone. There was no one there, lurking in the shadows, grinning out of the gloom, but Emma still remained on high alert, tense.

She looked back at Sherlock and spoke, quietly, her voice shaking, "He killed them," She whispered, "He killed them but I don't –" She stopped herself, taking a few breaths to calm herself, "I don't remember it, not specifically, I just remember... blood. A lot of blood. I don't know whose it was."

Sherlock shifted towards her slightly in his chair, "Try to focus on something else, now is not the time to panic."

"Well, when is?" Emma's ribs were stabbing with every breath she took, and Sherlock's grip was making her bruised hands ache.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before releasing his grip on her hands and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. The caution he used told her it was an experiment – he knew she didn't like to be touched and was avoiding another near-punch in the face – and so he was surprised when Emma collapsed into him, burying her face in his coat. It took him a moment to register what had happened, Emma noticed, as he paused before hugging her tightly, his chin resting on top of her head. It was the first hug she had ever received, and Emma felt overwhelmed, her shaking fingers gripping her father's coat collar with no intention of letting go. Her bruised body was aching, but she didn't care, she just buried herself further into him, huge sobs shaking her body.

They said nothing, just sat there in complete silence in the gloom. Sherlock placed a kiss on the top of her head, before moving his hands so that they were on her shoulders, and pushing her back so that he could look at her face.

"He wants you alive; he won't come and find you here."

"He already knows where I am." Emma turned to pick up the wooden wolf on her bedside, and leant down – hissing as her ribs seared – to take the envelope from the floor, before putting them both in Sherlock's hands, "He sent these to the hospital for me."

Sherlock turned the envelope over in his hands several times, first examining the ink and then the seal, "A pig?" He looked up at her, "I've seen these envelopes before, but none had this seal."

"So it's not connected then? It's part of something else?"

Sherlock nodded and resumed his examination, opening the envelope and peering at the straw inside, "Some kind of warning?" He pondered, "Obviously he's talking about the Three Little Pigs but... it doesn't add up, what's the significance?"

Emma shrugged at him, and sniffed. He frowned at her, before leaning over to place both envelope and figurine on her bedside table and collapsing back into his chair.

"What day is it?" Emma asked, realising that she still had no idea of how long she had been out. Sherlock yawned, wide like a cat, and answered her quickly,

"The twenty second of February."

Emma nodded slowly. She had lost three days, that wasn't so bad, "What about that kidnapping?"

"What about it?"

"Tell me what happened," She lay back down on the hospital bed, her dark hair spreading across the pillow, pulling the sheet around her tightly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You want me to tell you a story?" He seemed amused, and chuckled lightly.

"You need to make up for sixteen lost years, _dad_." She laughed at him, but he paused.

"Sixteen?"

"The twenty first is my birthday. You missed it; I expect a present when I next wake up." She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Consider it done." He smirked, leaning back in his chair and pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin.

"So," Emma looked up at him from where she lay, "Were these children important?"

"Oh yes, very, they were Rufus Bruhl's children, the ambassador to the US. Taken from under everyone's noses at their boarding school down in Surrey." He was staring at the wall opposite, sounding distant.

"Rich, then – you'll be able to get me an expensive birthday present." Emma mused quietly, her voice muffled by her pillow, "So, how'd you find them? I always enjoy how you figure things out." She asked sleepily.

"Footprints – they had traces of vegetation, brick dust and all the other typical things; but then, surprisingly, chocolate." He looked to Emma for her reaction, and she raised her eyebrows drowsily, "after considering every factor together the factory was the only place they could have been."

"The same place I was?"

"Yes, down in Addlestone. He'd been feeding them chocolates in wrappers painted with mercury."

"That's nice," Emma commented, no longer listening properly, her eyelids drooping.

"The boy's still unconscious, the girl's in shock. They're down in the main ward, down the corridor."

"Mmm hmm."

"Lestrade's going to question the girl today, so I'll have to leave." His voice was quiet. He seemed so far away. Emma nodded her head against the pillow in reply but didn't answer. She heard him stand up, felt him place a hand on her arm, "Goodnight, Emma."

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><p>Emma felt drowsy. She had done all day.<p>

It was probably all the morphine, but she wasn't complaining. The ability to adjust the amount of the drug pumped into her system at any given time had provided her with sufficient entertainment in a day that had mostly consisted of napping, if she had enough of the stuff she felt like she was floating. No one visited her, though that was probably due to the kidnapping case – after all, those children were much more important than her – she didn't mind, though, after she realised that other people's faces were starting to swim before her eyes.

Just as it began to get dark, the drowsiness took over and she was pulled into a deep sleep, free from nightmares. All that accompanied her slumber were swirling lights and music, calming her, freeing her from the panic that had so suddenly taken a grip on her life.

_'Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields / Nothing is real / and nothing to get hung about, Strawberry Fields forever'_

She was woken up by the sound of her phone vibrating loudly on the bedside table, the buzzing pulling her abruptly from her sleep. There was a moment of panic as she tried to remember where she was and what was going on, but she stopped herself, taking in deep breaths that ached in her side until she could think straight. She scooped the phone from the table and unlocked it, almost shocked to see that the text was from Sherlock and not John.

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 19:58 22/2/12 – Meet me at 221B as soon as possible._

Emma paused, staring at the screen, frowning.

_Emma Stoneheart – 20:00 22/2/12 – I'm in hospital - I can't just leave, there are tubes sticking out of my hands and everything, what if I die?_

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 20:00 22/2/12 – You're only hooked up to morphine for God's sake._

_Emma Stoneheart – 20:01 22/2/12 – I'm also sort of super injured._

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 20:01 22/2/12 – Please._

Emma sighed. Sherlock never asked nicely, he never begged, so it must be important. She leant forward in the bed to listen out for people approaching down the corridor and, once she was satisfied that the coast was clear, threw the sheet from over her and turned on the spot so that her legs were dangling above the floor. Her left knee was black with bruising, and she wasn't looking forward to trying to walk on it, so she swung her leg forwards and backwards a few times to test it out.

She had to stop, wincing, because the pain was making her eyes water.

She sighed again, closing her eyes and bracing herself, before sliding off of the bed so that she was stood. Her knee buckled, and she caught herself on the bedside table, before steadying herself and straightening up. Looking down at the needle in the back of her hand, she shuddered, before unpeeling the plaster from around the outside and then sliding the thin needle out of her vein. It immediately started bleeding, and she bunched up the material of her hospital gown and pressed it to the back of her hand, putting pressure on it until the bleeding stopped. Her clothes were in a bag at the other side of the room, and her coat lay over the back of the chair on the other side of her bed. Emma groaned, knowing that she would struggle to get anywhere at this rate. She sensed that it would be more efficient to just put on her coat and get a taxi to Baker Street, but then realised that she had no money and scratched that plan.

Still, she didn't think taking half an hour to try to put her clothes on before walking several miles was what Sherlock had meant by 'as soon as possible', so she leant over the bed, pulling her coat back over to her and putting it on, before finding her shoes, which were under the bedside table, and slipping them on, not bothering to tie the laces.

When she buttoned it up the coat covered her hospital gown completely, making her look like a flasher. Emma sighed, mentally preparing herself to be yelled at by drunks in the street, before taking a step towards the door.

It felt like somebody was stabbing her leg, the pain shooting through her knee with white hot rage that made her eyes water. She winced, releasing her breath through her teeth in a hiss, screwing up her eyes. She suddenly missed the morphine, and she needed it a lot.

Her phone buzzed once again, signalling another text. She slid a thumb across the screen, unlocking it, before reading,

_John Watson – 20:06 22/2/12 – How are you doing? Haven't heard from you all day :)_

_Emma Stoneheart – 20:06 22/2/12 – Been asleep mostly, to be honest, would like it to stay that way._

_John Watson – 20:07 22/2/12 – Sorry, sleep well._

Emma felt bad for lying to John, but she didn't know whether Sherlock had been with him or not. She couldn't risk messing anything up.

She took a few more steps, becoming more used to the aching in her leg, and by the time she reached the corridor she could almost walk like a normal person, only a slight limp as she stepped on her left; though her eyes were full of tears.

As she reached the main corridor, she recalled something she had heard Sherlock saying a few weeks ago – _you don't need a good disguise, you just need to act like you belong_. Emma didn't really know how she was going to get out looking quite how she did (she had seen, in the reflection in the glass walls, that her face and neck were heavily bruised, and the cheek that Jim had cut had swollen to almost twice its normal size, and was violently red), however she saw no harm in trying. She braced herself, shook her head to clear it of the fuzziness that the morphine had left, and stepped out into the open.

Doctors and nurses marched up and down the corridor, holding clipboards and pushing patients up and down, none of them taking a second glance at Emma, who looked around quickly for directions to the exit. She started off following the signs over head, walking at a leisurely pace, her head high, _like she belonged_.

"Excuse me?"

Emma was stopped with a hand on her shoulder, and turned towards the nurse who had spoken. She looked tired, overworked, and had long dark hair pulled back into a messy bun,

"Are you okay?" The nurse asked, eyeing Emma's face with suspicion.

"Um, yes thank you." Emma used the tears in her eyes to her advantage, and spoke with a degree of sadness in her voice, "I'm trying to find the exit? I need to get in touch with my aunt – my," She paused, faking a sob, "My dad just died, we were in a car crash."

The nurse's suspicious look immediately dropped to one of sympathy, the hand on her shoulder's grip releasing, "I'm so sorry," She smiled weakly, "The exit's just down there." She pointed the way Emma had been walking, and Emma nodded,

"Thanks," She sniffed loudly, allowing tears to roll down her cheeks.

The nurse turned and walked away, and Emma's face dropped. She wiped away the tears as she limped on, quicker now, eager to not be stopped again. The automatic doors slid open in front of her, and she stepped out into the bitterly cold air. The chill bit at her aching joints, making it harder to walk, and she wrapped her arms around her middle in an effort to keep warm.

She walked down several streets in the dark, staying quiet save for yelling a few choice curses at men who dared to wolf-whistle at her, keeping her head down. Ahead of her a taxi pulled up at the kerb, and someone jumped out of the back door and ran to the front.

"What was that?" The man sounded surprisingly like Sherlock. Emma squinted at the figure, who was clutching at the cab as it drove away, trying to make out the features. No, that _was _Sherlock.

And he was standing in the middle of the road.

"_Sherlock_!" Emma yelled at him in warning as a car approached quickly behind him. She started running, wincing every time her foot slammed on the pavement, but she wouldn't get there in time. The car sounded its horn and Sherlock began to turn towards it, when a figure ran across the road, dragging the detective out of the vehicle's path. Emma reached them just as Sherlock reached out to shake the man's hand, muttering his thanks, and was about to announce her arrival when -

Three gunshots. The man fell to the ground dead.

_Three gunshots_.

Emma screamed, though she wasn't sure why. Blood was pooling on the ground around the man, pooling around him like it had around her brother.

That was it. That was why she was screaming.

Moran had shot her brother – shot him in the head, right in front of her.

She was shaking again. Screaming and shaking and crying and – she didn't know what was going on, didn't know where Sherlock had gone. She called out his name between great, rattling sobs, but she couldn't see straight, her whole mind was whirling.

"Emma?" She could hear him, he was close, "Emma, get up."

His last command confused her, and she shook her head at him, moving her hands to rub her eyes, to try to clear her sight. When it eventually came back she found herself sat on the pavement, so she assumed that she must have fallen. Sherlock was crouched in front of her, his eyes hard and cold, there was no trace of the sympathy he had shown her that morning. He took hold of her arm and helped her to her feet, but her knee was weak and she could barely stand with her own strength. John seemed to have arrived, though from where she didn't know, and was shouting,

"What is she doing here? She told me she was at the hospital!"

Sherlock didn't let go of her arm, keeping her steady, "I need her here," He said shortly. John was angry,

"Look at her, Sherlock; she needs to be looked after!"

"Well, you're a doctor."

"She needs to go back." John glared at the detective, who tightened his grip on Emma's arm, "Take her back there, before she gets any worse."

"I'm totally fine," Emma croaked, rather unconvincingly, waving an arm at John, who scowled.

"I called an ambulance for Sulejmani – get them to take her back," He spoke to Sherlock, ignoring Emma's comment. Sherlock tutted and Emma looked up at his face, which, she noticed, seemed troubled.

The ambulance arrived little under ten minutes later, taking away the body of the man but leaving Emma, who had hidden around a corner so that they wouldn't spot her. John had been angry for a while, but his attention was pulled another way once the paramedics had left,

"That – it's him, it's him. Sulejmani, or something; Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster, lives two doors down from us."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, "He died because I shook his hand." He said, his fingers twitching fretfully.

"What d'you mean?" John asked, his brow furrowed. Emma looked up at her father, who seemed to be frustrated,

"He saved my life, but he couldn't touch me – _why_?"

Sherlock sighed, dropping his hands to his sides and marching away. John looked around at Emma, reaching out and arm to put it around her shoulders, before helping her follow the detective as he hailed a taxi. She climbed in after her father, who was still flexing his fingers feverishly, staring into the distance. She glanced up at him, considering asking him what was wrong, but decided against it – every time Sherlock had looked like that before all he had done was tut at her when she tried to speak.

John was watching her warily, and she raised her eyebrows at him as if to ask what he wanted.

"I'm still not happy that you're here." He answered her. Emma shook her head at him, indicating to Sherlock with a thumb,

"He asked nicely."

John raised an eyebrow, smirking, "Well," He admitted, "I don't think he's ever done that before, it must be important."


	12. Chapter 12 - Do Me a Favour

**A/N - i am so sorry its taken so long to get this done but im doing a level exams at the moment and also this chapter was HELLISH jesus christ i think ive managed to write 4.5k words of filler**

**anyway, i hope you enjoy**

**PS. this hasnt been proofread. im not really feeling it atm**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 12 – Do Me a Favour<span>**

Emma felt light headed, though she wasn't sure why. She had briefly lost consciousness in the taxi on the way back to 221B, her head lolling heavily against Sherlock's shoulder. Her knee had seized up, making it difficult to get out of the cab once it pulled up outside of the flat, and John had to help her climb out – half dragging her across the pavement to the door. Emma's vision was dark and blurring, and her head swam. John was talking to her, trying to keep her awake but she didn't know what he was saying, just that he was tutting a lot. She could feel something dripping down her left hand and a glance told her that it was covered in blood. It took her a while but she eventually pieced together the idea that the vein her IV had been placed in had started bleeding again.

Mrs Hudson was angrier that Emma had ever seen her before, and Emma had seen her in the aftermath of the intestines in the bathtub incident. She was shouting at Sherlock, her voice shill, ringing in Emma's ears. Sherlock was explaining something to her. Emma coughed, her ribs stabbing at her lungs as she did so, and groaned loudly. John shouted something at Sherlock and he hurried to pull open the door to the flat as John dragged her up the stairs.

She was dropped heavily into Sherlock's armchair, and John disappeared from Emma's eye line for a few moments, before retuning and crouching in front of her, taking her hand and wrapping it tightly with bandages. She moaned, complaining without words that the bandages were too tight. John looked up at her, his brow furrowed,

"They have to be that tight to stop the bleeding. You've lost a lot of blood already."

Emma screwed her eyes shut and shook her head at him, "'M fine," she waved her right hand at him, as he stuck down her bandages with bandage tape. John almost laughed,

"Emma, you're half-dead."

He got up and disappeared into the kitchen, and Emma looked over to the door, where Sherlock stood, twitching his fingers fretfully as he had done in the street. He looked worried, or deep in thought, Emma couldn't tell which; he was too blurry.

"What's up with you?" She asked him, stretching her shaking fingers in an attempt to stop them. Sherlock looked up at her for a moment, before making his way past her to his laptop, pulling off his scarf and coat as he went and dumping them in her lap.

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep –"

"Wait what?" Emma interrupted, and Sherlock looked up from the laptop at her, pausing mid sentence,

"_Yes_, four assassins – keep up – they've moved in over the past two months; who do you think just got shot? Who do you think _shot them_?" He sighed at her, and then continued, "They're not here to kill me, they're here to keep me alive."

John came back into the room, handing Emma a packet of biscuits. Emma looked at him quizzically, and he sighed,

"Eat them, you need energy – you're exhausted."

She nodded, before he helped her stand up and turned to Mrs Hudson, "Can you help her get some proper clothes on, please?"

The woman nodded, before moving to help Emma up the stairs to her bedroom. As they left, they heard Sherlock and John discussing what had just happened,

"I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me..."

"The others kill them before they can get their hands on it."

Mrs Hudson sat Emma down on her bed, before going over to her drawers and pulling out articles of clothing. Emma hadn't previously realised how hungry she was – she had rejected any offer of food from the hospital – and her fingers fumbled at the wrapping of the biscuits before she ripped it open and began devouring its contents. The old woman tutted at her,

"Anyone would think you haven't eaten in days." She shook her head, placing the pile of neatly folded clothes on the bed next to Emma, who began undoing the buttons on her coat,

"I don't think I have, to be honest," She slipped her coat off, lying it next to her on the duvet, before attempting to reach up to untie the knots tying her hospital gown closed. She hissed as her shoulders stung, and Mrs Hudson batted her hands away, pulling at the bows herself. The woman made a sound of dismay when she saw the thick layer of bandages around Emma's ribs,

"You know," She started angrily, "That father of yours is terrible – just look what's happened to you!" She handed Emma a t-shirt, which she pulled over her head with some difficulty. Emma half laughed at the woman,

"And this is only after, what, three months?" She hissed as the fabric went over her ribs, "Just imagine where I'll be in six years."

"Don't say that," Mrs Hudson said sadly as Emma pulled on a pair of dark jeans. The girl screwed her eyes up as she pulled them over her knee to stop herself from crying, the pain shooting up her leg as it bent.

As Emma stood up, pulling her coat back around her shoulders, she looked up at Mrs Hudson, her eyes watering and her knee shaking, "Get me every painkiller in this building and get me them quickly."

Mrs Hudson looked taken aback, but nodded and rushed out of the room. Emma picked up the packet of biscuits and shoved another in her mouth, before turning towards the door and making her way slowly from her room and back down the stairs to the living room, where Sherlock was stood on the table, peering in the bookshelf.

"Cameras," He said, clearly continuing a conversation that had been occurring when Emma had been upstairs, "We're being watched."

Emma stopped in her tracks. Being watched? By who? What if it was –

_What if it was Jim?_

She felt herself begin to panic, her breathing quickening. She had to steady herself with a hand on the doorframe to stay upright as her legs began to shake, "Watched? By who?" She managed to ask.

"John, hug Emma." Sherlock said shortly, as the doorbell rand and Mrs Hudson rushed from the room to answer the door. Emma waved away the blogger before he approached her, and Sherlock began moving books around, "It's not him, don't worry."

Emma nodded, before being pushed out of the doorway by Lestrade, who entered the room, his expression hard. Sherlock didn't look round at the new arrival,

"No, inspector," He said, pulling something small and dark from between books in the shelf.

"What?" Lestrade asked, glancing round at John quickly, looking confused.

Sherlock stepped down, a camera clutched in his fingers, "The answer's no."

"But you haven't heard the question!" Lestrade shouted incredulously. Emma was tapped on the shoulder by Mrs Hudson silently, who pressed three different boxes of pills into her hands, along with a bottle of water. She nodded to the woman in thanks, before moving into the living room and sitting on the sofa, opening the first packet and taking three of the painkillers inside.

"You want to take me to the station; I'm just saving you the trouble of asking." He walked closer to Greg, who pulled in a breath.

"Sherlock –" He started, but he was interrupted by the detective, who asked,

"The scream?"

"Yeah." Lestrade admitted quickly, sighing. Emma swallowed three more pills.

"Who was it? Was it Donovan? I bet it was Donovan," Sherlock shook his head slightly, "Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Oh, Moriarty is smart," Emma looked up, suddenly more interested in the conversation, "He planted that doubt in your head; that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist – you can't kill an idea, can you? Not when it's made a home," Sherlock reached and pressed a finger above the space between his eyebrows on his forehead, "_there_." He shook his head once more and stepped away from Greg, furrowing his brow, "You think I would kidnap my own daughter and murder her family?"

"No, but –" Lestrade sighed, "Will you come?" He asked. Sherlock turned and sat at his laptop, starting to type. Emma took some more painkillers, before setting the boxes down on the coffee table and taking another swig of water.

"One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning." Emma watched him as he spoke, his face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen, "He wants to destroy me; inch by inch." He picked up the camera he had taken from the bookshelf and looked at it for a moment, before raising his eyes to Lestrade, "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I am willing to play."

Sherlock looked back down at the laptop and spoke without raising his head, "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan." He said. Greg sighed and exchanged a look with John before nodding to Emma and heading off towards the door. He stopped, his brow furrowing, and turned back to the girl, who screwed the lid back on her bottle of water,

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in hospital." He asked, anger bubbling in his voice.

"Am I? I didn't realise." Emma shrugged at him, "I'll be sure to get back there right away, Inspector, don't you worry."

He narrowed his eyes at her as she gave him a smile, but left the flat regardless.

John moved over to the window to watch him go, his hands linked behind his back, and Emma lay back on the sofa, thankful for a bit of quiet so she could finally relax.

"They'll be deciding." Sherlock stated.

"Deciding?" John queried.

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?" John turned back to face Sherlock, who shrugged,

"Standard procedure."

John sighed, "You should've gone with him, people will think –"

"I don't care what people think." Sherlock interrupted quickly, his eyes narrowing at John.

John raised his eyebrows, "You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No," Sherlock said quickly, brushing off the statement, "That would just make them stupid or wrong."

John was angry now, and raised his voice as he took as step toward the detective, "Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're..." He broke off as Sherlock's eyes met his. There was a long pause.

"That I am what?"

John's shoulders dropped slightly, and he was quiet once more, "A fraud."

Emma narrowed her eyes at John, searching his face, "You're scared," She started, "You're _scared that they're right_."

"What?" John looked at her where she lay, shaking his head.

"She's right; you're worried that they're right about me." Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking back at the laptop, "That's why you're so upset, you can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid you've been taken in as well."

John shook his head, his voice tainted with light laughter, as he turned back towards the window, "No I'm not." Sherlock leaned towards him, still sat in front of the laptop,

"Moriarty is playing with your mind as well," He raised his voice, furious, slamming his fist down on the table heavily as he shouted, "Can't you _see _what's going on?!"

The bang as Sherlock's fist hit the table made Emma jump, and she whimpered quietly – remembering Moran punching her, over and over. Sherlock ignored her, staring at John, who turned at returned his gaze for a few moments before speaking,

"No; I know you're for real."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "A hundred percent?"

"Well, no one could fake being such an annoying dick _all _the time." He seemed to wait until Sherlock smiled, before turning away once more, silence falling over the flat.

Once it seemed like no one was going reignite the conversation, Emma pulled headphones from her pocket and placed them in her ears with shaking fingers, suddenly realising that it had been almost four days since she had listened to any music at all. She shut her eyes to the scene around her, shutting everything out but the layers of instruments in her ears, relishing this short chance to hear a song or two. She figured she wouldn't have time again for a while.

_'She walked away, well her shoes were untied / and the eyes were all red, you could see that we'd cried / and I watched and I waited 'till she was inside / forcing a smile and waving goodbye'_

She sat there, lost in the music, for what seemed to her like half an hour, before John's phone rang, pulling her from her meditation. She pulled the headphones from her ears and watched as John left the room, leaving Emma and Sherlock alone. He was still typing furiously at his laptop, and so Emma got up slowly, her hands at her ribcage, and made her way over to him, glancing over his shoulder at the screen.

There were several windows open – one showing a live, black and white image of Sherlock's face, which Emma realised was the feed from the tiny camera found in the bookshelf, which was now propped up on the desk – he seemed to be searching up on the both the assassins and himself.

Sherlock glanced up at her for a fraction of a second, before continuing his searching, "This is why I need you here – I need you to see what he's doing. He's ruining my reputation, he's going to show the world that I am a fake and I need you here so that you don't go on believing that it's true."

"I wouldn't believe it anyway." Emma frowned at him, but he didn't look around.

"He's playing with your mind as well, that's what he did when he kidnapped you. He's planting thoughts in your mind so that he can control you," Sherlock opened a new window and started searching up on a person whose name Emma did not recognise – _Kitty Riley_, "One day you may well believe it, Emma." He looked up at her, his fingers pausing above the keyboard.

Emma smirked at him, "Jim'll never control me – no one's managed it before."

"He's already started."

Emma's smirk dropped, "What?"

"He's already got inside your head." Sherlock's eyes bore into Emma's, hard and serious, "What do you call him?"

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

"Well, Jim – that's his name." Emma frowned, shrugging her shoulders.

"You never used to call him that." Sherlock looked back down at the laptop, continuing his typing, "Odd, isn't it, how little things change."

Emma raised an eyebrow, "Just because I don't call him by his last name doesn't mean he's got any sort of control over me. It doesn't mean –"

"What doesn't it mean?" Sherlock turned back towards her, his voice low and his words fast, "Because, if my thinking is correct, and it usually is, people don't usually refer to people who want them dead by their nicknames."

Emma was about to retort, but the words wouldn't come out. She didn't know what to say to that. Sherlock watched her for a few moments before standing and moving over to his armchair, and John came back into the room, his phone still at his ear,

"Yeah, thanks, Greg." He lowered the mobile and hung up the call, then turned back to Sherlock, "So, still got _some _friends on the force," He gestured with the phone, "It's Lestrade, says their all coming over here right now, queuing to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Sherlock ignored him, and Emma went to sit back in her spot on the sofa, as Mrs Hudson knocked on the door and entered the room,

"Oh, sorry; am I interrupting?" She asked, before turning her attention to John. Emma saw Sherlock roll his eyes before catching her gaze in smiling half-heartedly, "Some chap delivered a parcel, marked 'perishable'. I had to sign for it." She held out a brown envelope with a red wax seal to John, who took it as Emma stood up quickly – it looked exactly like the one she had received at the hospital, "Funny name – German, like the fairy tales."

Emma looked over to Sherlock, who stood and made his way over to look at the contents on the envelope. The detective shook his head at the girl who stared, her stomach twisting.

"Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain." She said. Sherlock frowned at her, then inspected the seal.

"Magpie, not pig." He shot her a glance, before looking down at the object John had taken from the envelope. It was a gingerbread man, but it was blackened and charred, "Burnt to a crisp."

Sirens in the street indicated that Greg was back, this time bringing a warrant and backup. Emma looked to the window, where the flashing lights from the police cars painted dancing patterns on the curtains, before moving over to where Sherlock and John stood, taking the gingerbread man in her fist.

"What does it mean?" John directed his question at Sherlock, who said nothing. Emma raised her eyes to the blogger,

"Run, run, run as fast as you can."

The doorbell rang as somebody began repeatedly slamming the knocker, yelling "Police!"

Mrs Hudson looked flustered, "I'll go." She said quickly, before hurrying away down the stairs as Emma handed the gingerbread man back to John, who slipped it back into the envelope.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, accompanied by a woman's voice, "We need to talk to you!"

John shoved the envelope into Emma's hands before exiting the flat, standing at the top of the stairs to block the police officers' way.

"Have you got a warrant? Have you?"

Emma went back to place the envelope on the table, before shooting a glance at Sherlock. She could feel anxiety bubbling inside of her stomach – what would she do once Sherlock was arrested? He was all she had left, where was she supposed to go once she was alone?

The rest happened in a blur – Lestrade entered, reading Sherlock his rights before arresting him. Emma just stood, watching, not speaking, wanting very much to vomit. He was taken from the room, led down the stairs while John and Mrs Hudson protested.

Emma just watched, feeling numb.

John came over to where she stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. He was so close, yet he seemed so far away.

"You alright?" He asked quietly, police officers still milling around the flat, chatting as if Emma's whole world wasn't crumbling around her. Emma paused, trying to think of a good answer,

"Stupid question." She muttered, and John sighed, his grip on her shoulder tightening for a moment, before he released it and moved away towards the policewoman who stood in the doorway.

"You done?" He asked her; she looked smug,

"Oh, I said it," She smiled, her head inclining to the side.

"Mm hmm?" John's eyebrows were raised; he looked as if he was trying very hard not to slap the woman in the face.

"First time we met," The woman continued,

"Don't bother," John shook his head, "Not in front of her," He gestured back towards Emma with a hand half heartedly.

"No, I said it, didn't I? 'Solving crimes won't be enough – one day he'll cross the line'." She took a step toward John, her eyebrows raised, "Now, ask yourself, what kind of a man would murder _his own daughter's_ family, _what kind of a man _would kidnap those kids just so he could impress us all by finding them?"

John balled his hands into fists. Emma could feel the emptiness that had overcome her dripping away, her gut twisting and her blood pounding. This woman, whoever she was, was _definitely _asking for a slap. Or worse.

The chief superintendant entered the room. He was a portly man with a cheap suit and a receding hairline.

"Donovan?" He questioned. His voice was nasal and sharp.

"Sir?" The woman's smug smile dropped, preferring an air of professionalism to one of bichiness, seemingly.

"Got our man?" The superintendent's eyes swept over the room, grazing past Emma, his eyes narrowing slightly as he addressed Donovan.

"Er, yes, sir."

The superintendent was still watching Emma, who could practically feel the anger in her throat, lingering like vomit. He spoke harshly, "Looked a bit of a _weirdo _if you ask me," Emma saw John turn toward the man in the corner of her eye. She stared the superintendent out, and his eyes swept away once more, "Often are, these vigilante types." He seemed to notice John, and turned pointedly towards him, "What are _you_ looking at?"

John could obviously take the insults no longer, his anger winning out. He punched the superintendent across the face – hard.

What happened next was fast – much faster than Sherlock's arrest. Two police officers ran in from the hall and grabbed John by the arms, dragging him out of the room as they told him he was under arrest for assaulting an officer. Emma couldn't help but laugh as the superintendent followed them down the stairs, a handkerchief at his nose to stop the boodflow. Donovan scoffed,

"Why am I surprised? The first sound I've heard from you all night and it's in favour of someone getting hurt," She raised an eyebrow, "I don't even have to ask who you're related to."

Emma's laughter stopped and her smile dropped, "Is that because of the looks, or because of the general air of intelligence and wit coming from this side of the room?" She asked flatly.

"No," Donovan took a step towards Emma, smirking once more. Emma's fingers flexed. "It's because you're a smug little _bitch_ and a freak, just like your dad."

Emma's voice was low and quiet, her eyes hard, "What did you just call him?"

"A freak, because that's what he is – and it seems you two are quite similar in that sense."

Before she knew what she was doing Emma's fist collided with the woman's face, her knuckles cracking against her cheekbone. She almost shocked herself, and pulled her hand back into her chest, clutching at her fingers, which ached violently.

As she watched Donovan steady herself, she felt hands grabbing at her arms, pulling them round to her back. There was a moment of panic when she remembered Moran clutching at her, forcing her to watch while Jim... What did he do again?

"Emma Holmes –"

"Stoneheart." Emma interrupted Donovan, who paused, before shaking her head and continuing,

"Emma Stoneheart, I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer,"

"There's no suspicion about it, really, is there?"

"Take her downstairs." Donovan said to the officer holding Emma bitterly, her cheek bright red. Emma smirked at her as she left the room.

"There's no need to push," She told the officer as he shoved her down the stairs, "My knee's super bad, anyway, I might fall and die and _then _who'll be liable?"

The officer grunted, but tightened his grip on her arms – it was a silent threat, Emma observed, that they wouldn't condone any more quips from her. She was satisfied anyway; punching Donovan had been an excellent stress reliever.

The cold wind whipped around her as she was pushed out onto the darkened street, where police officers were hanging around, the flashing lights of their cars lighting up the street and dancing on the sides of the buildings.

"What is _she _doing here?" Greg half-jogged up to Emma and the police officer. He looked flustered, more upset than angry, and was holding a mobile phone away from his face, as if he was pausing a conversation to intervene.

"Punched Donovan." The police officer was blunt, and Greg nodded once, slowly, as if he didn't believe it.

"Really?" He directed the question to Emma rather than the policeman, his eyebrows raised.

Emma shrugged, half smiling, "She called my dad a freak."

Greg sighed, then waved the two of them off. Emma was almost dragged over to a police car, her bad knee causing her to limp slightly, pain shooting up her leg whenever she put a bit too much weight on it. She was slammed against the car by the policeman, who ignored her cursing, and was promptly handcuffed to the man next to her,

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to join us." Sherlock drawled, looking down at her.

"I was banking more on ten minutes," John sighed,

"You owe me a fiver," Sherlock directed the comment toward the blogger, who laughed lightly.

"Not to interrupt or anything but, in case you hadn't noticed there's no one to bail us."

Sherlock looked at Emma, his brow furrowed, "What are you talking about?"

Emma's eyebrows shot up, "We've been arrested!" She said incredulously. Sherlock shook his head at her,

"You're definitely focussing on the wrong thing here."

"What else is there to focus on?" She asked, her voice becoming shrill and panicked.

"Why, our imminent and daring escape, of course."

Emma heard John begin to question Sherlock, before she saw Sherlock's hand disappear inside the police car and squeeze the radio lying on the dashboard and she couldn't hear anything other than the screech of feedback. The police officer who lingered behind the three of them doubled over, his earpiece screaming, the sound filling his head. Sherlock reached over with the hand that was handcuffed to John's and took the officer's gun, raising it towards the hoard of police,

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you please all get on your knees?"

No one reacted to Sherlock's command, save Greg rolling his eyes. Emma's eyes were glued to the gun in Sherlock's hand, and she could feel herself start to shake.

Two shots – Sherlock had fired in the air, though that made no difference. Emma screamed, screwing her eyes up, trying to move away from the detective, however she couldn't, being handcuffed to him.

"_NOW_ would be good." The gun was back on the police officers, and Emma watched it, her eyes wide and glassy. Her breathing was heavy and deep, shuddering. Sherlock wordlessly grabbed her hand in effort to calm her down – to let her know he wasn't going to hurt her? Emma though maybe it was something more...

They were going to run.

Just like Jim wanted them to.

"Everyone do as he says!" Greg yelled, gesturing for all of the officers to get down. They obeyed him, kneeling down on the pavement, their hands up.

John spoke up, his voice loud but wavering slightly, "Just – just so you're aware, the gun was his idea, I'm just a, y'know –"

"My hostage." Sherlock dropped Emma's hand but it was dragged with his as he took hold of the pistol and pointed it at John's head.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She hissed, becoming rather short of breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Hostage, yes, that works – _that _works." John muttered, sarcasm mixing with panic in his voice.

The three of them backed away from the police slowly, not turning around. Emma had to focus very hard not to fall, her knee aching more and more with every step. She glanced behind them to check the road was clear, and her eyes fell on something which made her stop in her tracks.

Graffiti, three feet tall and bright red. Elaborate angel wings surrounding three letters.

_I.O.U._

Sherlock tugged back on the handcuffs slightly to bring her attention back to what was going on, and Emma shook her head to clear it, before continuing away from the police.

"So," John started, "What now?"

Sherlock began quickening the pace, "Doing what Moriarty wants – I'm becoming a fugitive," The hand holding the gun dropped and they began to turn away from the hoard of officers, "Run."

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><p><strong>AN - reviews would be fab as fuck**


	13. Chapter 13 - Hurts Like Heaven

**A/N - sorry its been a while. this chapter was hard to write.**

**chapter 13, haha, unlucky for some (mostly emma)**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 13 – Hurts Like Heaven<span>**

_'How come they're out to get us? / How come they're out when they don't know the facts?'_

* * *

><p><em>Her brother's death had been over before she had known it. There was a gunshot and that was it. From where she was sprawled on the floor she saw nothing but a splatter of red, but she knew what had happened, though it still took a few moments for it to register in her brain. There was a thud as his body hit the floor, and Emma screwed her eyes up, her hands moving to cover her face, her fingers clenched into fists, knuckles pressing into her shut eyes, trying to wake her up.<em>

_This had to be a dream. Just a crazy, terrifying, all-consuming dream._

_"Get up." He was still talking to her in that soft, soft voice, "You should see this."_

_She shook her head without moving her hands. She could feel them becoming slick with the hot blood pouring from her broken nose._

_There were hands on her again, pulling her up onto her feet. Her legs shook violently, and she screamed as the hands pulled her own away from her face. She lashed out at Moriarty, who simply laughed at her, a glint in his eye._

_"Trust me, you're gonna want to watch the show."_

* * *

><p>Emma hissed loudly with her first step, her knee buckling under the full weight of her body. Sherlock and John didn't stop running, practically dragging her along as she struggled to keep her legs under control, tripping over them in an effort to fall into a pace next to the two men.<p>

There was a clatter and Sherlock dropped the gun, reaching out and grabbing Emma's hand with his, now free, to help her keep up.

"The gun!" John protested, slowing slightly, but Sherlock shook his head as they swerved to the left, almost shoving John into an alleyway.

"Leave it."

Their feet slapped on the pavement, the darkness becoming all the more consuming as the high walls of the alley came up around them. Sherlock did not slow as they reached a tall, metal fence at the end of the alley, he simply jumped up on top of a dustbin, slamming Emma into the structure in the process, and tried to get over the top, before realising that he could not.

"Hurry up," He shot down to John and Emma, who was clutching her ribs with her free arm, the other sticking up at an odd angle due to it being handcuffed to Sherlock.

John tutted loudly, before grabbing hold of the tail of Sherlock's coat and pulling him further towards the pair on the ground, "We're going to have to co ordinate." He inclined his head towards Emma, who was blinking back tears, the pain in her side searing as her breathing became more rapid.

Sherlock scanned their surroundings quickly, before hopping back down between the two of them and setting off at a run once more down the alleyway. They reached a junction and were pulled right by the consulting detective, before the siren of a police car sent them flying back around the corner, pressing up against the wall as if it would make them invisible.

"Everyone wants to believe it, that's what makes it so clever," Sherlock looked to John, breathing heavily, "A lie that's preferable to the truth." He looked away, staring at the wall opposite the three of them. His voice was bitter, "All my brilliant deductions were just a sham, no one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."

Emma looked down at her feet, sighing. Her knee was shaking violently, pain shooting through it with every movement it made.

"What about Mycroft? He could help us?" John asked. He too was trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock dragged the two of them across to the other side of the junction, peering around into the street. Emma made a hiss in protest, stumbling slightly.

"A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment." Sherlock pulled a face, before spinning around, dragging Emma and John in a circle towards the other end of the junction, back the way that they had come.

"Sherlock?" John began, elbowing the detective and pointing down the alley, "We're being followed. I _knew _we couldn't outrun the police!"

Emma somehow felt relieved. She would much rather be sat in a police cell at that moment than running all over London with a badly injured knee, handcuffed to a sociopath. She was about to say that they should give up and hand themselves in when Sherlock interrupted,

"That's not the police; it's one of my new neighbours from Baker Street." He looked back at John and grinned, his face looking devilish in the gloom, "Let's see if he can give us some answers."

They ran further down the alley to another junction, flat out against the wall again. Emma was going to cry if she didn't get to sit down soon.

They peeked out onto the street – there was no sign of the police. The street was empty save for a red double-decker bus, its lights piercing the dark of the night as it made its way up the road.

"You want to tell us what the hell we're doing?" Emma asked Sherlock, irritation rising in her voice.

Sherlock paused for a second before speaking, "We're going to jump in front of that bus."

Before either John or Emma could protest they were swept into the street by the detective, faced with the gargantuan vehicle moving towards them with alarming speed. Emma, completely unprepared for such a situation, screamed, attempting to scramble away from Sherlock and John, but the handcuffs and the weight of the two men meant that she was incapable. As long as they stood their ground there was no way she could get out of the path of the bus.

However, before she had time to scream "Have you gone insane!?" at the detective, they were all thrown to the ground on the pavement, out of the path of the bus.

Her knee cracked loudly as it smacked against the curb and Emma screamed. What made it worse was the impact of three people landing on top of her.

Sherlock was up immediately, pointing the assassin's own gun at him, and John moved very quickly after. Emma hissed as she rolled over and sat up. Her knee was an odd shape.

"Shit," She heard John mutter under his breath. Sherlock was busy interrogating the assassin next to them, but John's attention was on Emma's leg, "Dislocated."

"Fuck."

"He left it at your flat." The assassin was telling Sherlock, the gun still pointing at his head.

Sherlock's eyes were hard, "Who?"

"Moriarty." The assassin said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Emma stared at the man,

"What? What did he leave?" Her voice was becoming increasingly high as she became more and more overwhelmed by what was happening around her.

Sherlock began to stand, and the rest of the group followed, John helping Emma – an arm around her shoulders to relieve her knee of her body weight.

"The computer key code."

Sherlock made a sound of recognition, "Of course. He's selling it - the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around."

There were three gunshots and the assassin fell to the ground. Emma made a noise similar to a squeak, and stumbled slightly. She felt John's grip on her shoulders tighten slightly. There was a scream of police sirens approaching down the street and John let go of Emma, instructing Sherlock with a brief look to help her to get out of view of the road.

The three ducked through an open doorway, watching the police car pass outside while catching their breath.

"It's a game changer," Sherlock said, "It's a key – it can break into _any _system and it's sitting in our flat right now."

"Mm," Emma made a noise to catch the detective's attention, "That must be why he sent out that message – I noticed ages ago – '_GET SHERLOCK'_ wasn't to the police, it was to his network."

Sherlock nodded, the hand on her shoulder gripping a little tighter, "We need to get back to the flat and search."

John shook his head, "CID'll be camped out." He changed the subject, "Why plant it on you?"

"Another subtle way of smearing my name," the irritation was clear in the detective's voice, "Now I'm best pals with all those criminals."

John seemed distracted, and pulled a newspaper from a pile on a nearby table, "Yeah, well, have you seen this?"

He presented the cover of the paper to the other two – an article promised an exposé on Sherlock, his whole life, including the 'truth' about his deductions. Emma felt sick.

"A kiss and tell – some bloke called Rich Brook?" John said, looking at Sherlock as if waiting for an explanation. The detective slowly turned his head – the name clearly meant something to him, though he didn't say what, "Who _is_ he?"

* * *

><p>They had taken a taxi to an area of housing about twenty minutes away. Emma had spent the majority of the time worried that the taxi driver would recognise them and turn them in – they must have been all over the news by that point. John sat across from her, attempting to straighten her leg. The pain made it feel like her knee was on fire and she couldn't help but yell in protest.<p>

"I can't fix it unless it's straight." He sighed at Emma, who shook her head.

"It's fine, leave it." Her teeth were gritted, and her eyes watering.

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock interjected, speaking quickly. He didn't look around, simply continued staring out of the window, his fingers at his face, twitching like they had earlier in the night.

Her leg was propped up on the seat next to John, and Emma watched at John examined her swollen knee with practiced fingers. After a few moments he leant back slightly,

"It's only your kneecap that's dislocated, it isn't hard to put back. It _will _hurt though."

"I've probably had worse."

John looked at the girl with disbelieving eyes for a moment, before nodding and placing his hands back on her knee, gripping it through the fabric of her jeans. He paused before twisting his arms, and there was a loud crack as Emma's kneecap clicked back into place. Pain seared through her leg, aching in the joint as she pulled it back into her. She screamed at John, mostly in shock. Given that she was still handcuffed to both men, as she jerked backwards there was a loud clatter as they were pulled towards her. They felt the taxi pull up onto the curb and break, and there was a sharp knocking on the clear plastic window which separated the driver from the three of them in the back,

"What's going on? Are you alright?"

John straightened up, throwing Emma an odd look before insisting that everything was fine and the driver should move on. Emma glared at him as she propped her leg back up next to the doctor on the seat opposite.

The taxi continued on its way, and none of the group spoke until they reached their destination.

As John hopped out of the cab, he glanced around, his brow furrowed, taking in the houses around them, "Where are we?"

"Kitty Riley's flat. We need to know who her informer was." Sherlock wasn't looking at Emma or John, but glancing around the street. He made a sound of acknowledgement before setting off in the direction of one of the buildings. Emma could still only limp, lagging behind as far as the handcuffs would let her.

After breaking into the woman's flat the three of them found it empty, and so Sherlock thought the most reasonable thing to do would be to make themselves comfortable on the sofa. It was a two-seater, and so Emma was left perching on the arm, fiddling with the handcuff that was starting to make her wrist ache.

There was the sound of a car pulling up outside, and a few minutes later the door was opened and the lights flicked on. The woman Emma had observed at Jim's trial stood in the doorway, and she instantly regretted writing her off as ordinary.

"Too late to go on the record?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, as if they had not been breaking and entering.

Kitty Riley sighed and shut her front door, saying nothing.

"Oh," Sherlock continued, his voice bright, "And a hairpin would be nice." He waved his arm and, by extension, John's to point out the handcuffs to the journalist, who glared, before fishing around in her hair for a bobby pin.

As Sherlock took the pin from the woman he stood, smiling at her as she sat down in an armchair, "Congratulations," He started, unlocking the handcuff that chained Emma to him first, "The truth about Sherlock Holmes." Emma's hand was freed and she hugged it into her chest, massaging her wrist as if to make sure it was still intact, "The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it, bravo!" Sherlock finished with a hint of sarcasm, as he freed his own hand and threw the handcuffs down on the sofa behind him, where Emma had moved to sit.

Kitty looked at the detective with an odd look, almost angry, "I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down so..."

Sherlock released John, before unlocking his other hand and, again, tossing the handcuffs back on the sofa, "And then, behold, someone turns up and spills the beans. How _utterly _convenient." He took a step towards the woman, his face hardening, "Who is Brook?"

Kitty closed her eyes, shaking her head. She laughed lightly.

"Oh come on, Kitty, no one trusts the voice at the end of the telephone." Sherlock sounded disappointed, as if he had thought Kitty would have thought better of keeping things from him, "There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets." His voice became colder, "What were his credentials?"

Outside there was the sound of someone coming through the main front door. Kitty seemed shocked at the arrival and rose from her chair. Emma got the feeling they were about to meet Kitty's source, judging by the concerned look on her face. Emma averted her gaze to the door as it was pushed open and her breath hitched.

Jim Moriarty walked in, mumbling about coffee, his face unshaven, hair messy and wearing, of all things, a _cardigan_. He looked like a normal person. He looked like he hadn't committed several murders earlier in the week.

Emma found herself scrambling back on the sofa, trying to get as far away from the man as possible, too shocked to make a noise, too scared to even squeak. The last time she had seen that face it had been splattered with blood. The last time she had seen those hands, now held up in front of his face defensively, they had been clutching a penknife drenched in Emma's blood.

John was yelling, "So that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?"

"Of _course_ he's Richard Brook. There _is _no Moriarty." Kitty said calmly; Emma's head snapped around to stare at her, wild eyed, "There never has been."

"What?" She snapped at the woman, her hands, legs, _whole body _shaking, "What are you talking about?" Her eyes were instantly back on Jim, not wanting to give him a chance to... well, to do anything. She didn't blink, she just stared. She wasn't even sure if she was breathing. Jim still had a look of false fear and surprise on his face. It made Emma feel sick.

"Look him up," Kitty said, "Rich Brook – an _actor _Sherlock Holmes _hired_ to be Moriarty."

John was angry too, shaking his head and muttering, his expression becoming harder with every moment that passed. His fists were clenched, as if he was about to punch Jim, who seemed to have noticed.

"Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man," His voice was still so soft, so _innocent_. Emma was shaking her head,

"No no no no," She whispered to herself, her hands moving up to cover her ears, screwing her eyes up.

Jim still sounded terrified under John's ferocious gaze, and had backed into the corner of the room, "Don't – don't hurt me."

"NO!" Emma jumped as John screamed, pointing at the man, who cowered, "YOU ARE MORIARTY!" John turned to Kitty, "He _is _Moriarty!" He turned back to Jim, "We've met, remember? _You were going to blow me up_!"

Jim's hands went to his face, burying his head in them momentarily, before moving them away and holding them out in front of him. When he spoke he sounded almost as if he was crying, "I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_," He gestured towards Sherlock, "He paid me," Emma's insides went cold, her body stiffened, "I needed the work – I'm an actor, I was out of work, I'm _sorry_, okay?"

She found herself moving from the sofa, her hands shaking, her breath rattling, and she stood directly facing the man who only a few days ago had killed everyone she had ever even vaguely cared about, "What do you mean?" Her voice was darker than she had expected it to be, and she surprised herself with her confidence.

Jim's face was still plastered with fear, and his voice wavered as he answered her, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry about what I did," Again, he gestured towards the detective, "He offered me money – lots of it. I couldn't refuse, I'm _sorry_."

"No," Emma screwed up her eyes again, shaking her head. She felt a wave of anger flow through her, filling her with a new burst of adrenaline which let her momentarily forget about the pain of her knee and ribs. Emma launched herself at Jim, who cowered away from her as she grabbed him by his cardigan, pulling him so his face was only inches from hers. She yelled at him, "_NO_! He wouldn't _do _that – he wouldn't do that to me! Stop this, _STOP IT NOW_!"

She felt hands on the back of her coat and she was pulled back by Kitty Riley, who was apologising to _Jim_, of all people.

There were actual tears on the criminal's face at this point, and Emma scoffed at him, trying to pull away from the journalist, who pushed her back onto the sofa. Sherlock was the only one who seemed to have remained calm.

"Sherlock, you'd better," John paused, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to calm down, his eyes flicking between Jim and Emma, "Explain... Because I am getting none of this."

Kitty interrupted, moving to a table to scoop up some documents, "Oh, _I'll _be doing the explaining – in print." She handed the folder she had picked up to John, "It's all here, conclusive proof." John was reading the paper inside, however from where she had been pushed Emma couldn't see what it said. Kitty turned to face Sherlock, "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."

John's voice was small, upset, defeated, "Invented him?"

Kitty made a noise of affirmation, "Invented all the _crimes_, actually – and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."

John's voice rose again, "Oh, don't be ridiculous!"

Kitty spun around to face Jim again, pointing, "_Ask _him. He's right here. Just ask him. _Tell him_, Richard."

John was angry, his grip on the folder in his hand tightening, crumpling the paper, "Look, for God's sake, this man was _on trial_!"

"Yes," Kitty stared, turning towards Sherlock, pointing at the detective, "And you paid him; _paid_ him to take the rap. Promised he'd rig the jury." She finished, her voice bitter, mocking.

Sherlock just stared t her.

"Not exactly a West End role, but I bet the money was good." She mused, moving over to Jim, putting an arm around his shoulders. His hands were still up in front of his face, "But not so good that he didn't want to sell his story."

Jim was still apologising, his wide eyes flicking between John and Emma, his hands pressed together as if he was praying, "I _am_ sorry. I _am_," He looked right at Emma, never breaking character, his eyes glued to hers, "I _am sorry_."

"No. Shut up." She snapped, shaking her head at him, spitting her words.

"So," John started, but faltered slightly, before starting again as he turned to Kitty, "So this is what you're going to publish? The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?" He sounded disbelieving, almost sad that anyone could say that. He shook his head at the woman.

Jim stepped forwards slightly from where he stood in the corner, "He _knows _I am," He pointed at Sherlock, before again moving his attention back to Kitty, "I have proof, I _have proof_! Show him, Kitty! Show him something!"

"Yeah, _show me_ something." John glared at the journalist, who stared him out for a second before making her way across the room. John turned to watch her, but Emma kept her eyes on Jim, whose attention had moved to Sherlock.

The criminal covered his face in his hands for a moment, before lowering them, staring at Sherlock. For a moment Jim grinned – a malicious grin that was too big for his face, baring his teeth in triumph at his enemy, who could do nothing to hurt him.

He revealed his true nature – it _was _him, he _was _real.

* * *

><p><em>"Sebastian," The Irishman drawled, sounding almost bored, "Fetch the others."<em>

_The younger man nodded and left the room. Emma tried to pull away from Jim's grip but she couldn't, he held her too tightly, too close in his cold fingers. _

_"You always said you didn't like them anyway," He whispered. She could feel his breath on her ear. She whimpered. He laughed, "Shh," He was resting his cheek on the side of her head, his voice was sing song, "You know that you won't miss them."_

_Emma was shaking. Her side was aching, the pain in her knee screaming._

_The door was kicked open and Moran entered again. Emma couldn't see his face, it was too in shadow, but something about his posture had changed. He was dragging two bodies behind him, Emma's mother and stepfather stumbling over their own feet to keep up. They were scared, her mother wailing._

_"Please don't do this." Emma whispered, her hand snapping up to grip Jim's arm. He laughed._

_"A change of heart? Really?" She felt his grip on her shoulders tighten, "Not your family's usual style."_

_"_They're _not my family. _This _is my family," Her voice was shaking almost as violently as her legs and she nodded towards the two adults cowering in front of them, "_Please_, Jim," She heard him laugh, "Let them go."_

* * *

><p>Kitty handed John a folder, and Jim slipped back into character, "I'm on TV," He sounded panicked and desperate, "I'm on kid's TV, I'm The Storyteller." As John flicked through the pages in the folder Kitty had handed him, Jim's voice deflated, sounding defeated, "I'm – I'm The Storyteller. It's on DVD."<p>

John was shaking his head as he read. Jim was looking at Sherlock pleadingly,

"Just tell them. It's all coming out now, it's all over." He became more frantic, moving towards the detective slightly, "Just tell them, just tell them. _Tell them_!" He yelled.

"SHUT UP!" Emma threw herself off of the sofa, but stumbled on her bad leg before she could reach him. Jim's eyes were back on her, still pleading, still feigning innocence, "_SHUT UP_! YOU TORTURED ME! YOU KILLED MY FAMILY! YOU _ARE _MORIARTY!"

"_TELL THEM_!" Jim yelled at Sherlock.

The detective bared his teeth, beginning to move towards Jim, who scrambled back, "NO!" He half-fell backwards up a small flight of stairs, leading to an upper level of the flat. Sherlock kept walking towards him, silent. Jim held his hands up in front of himself, "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay _one finger _on me!"

Sherlock stopped moving, "STOP IT. STOP IT _NOW_!" He was furious; his voice almost a roar. Jim turned and bolted up the stairs, running through the bedroom into the bathroom.

"Don't let him get away!" John yelled.

"Leave him alone!" Kitty was pleading, but the two men chased the criminal through the flat, Emma attempting to follow though at a much slower pace.

The bathroom door was slammed shut, but yanked open a moment later by Sherlock, who burst into the room, but found it empty.

"No, no, no, he'll have backup." Sherlock shook his head at John, as if dismissing an idea that he had had to pursue Jim.

Emma had her hands on the railings of the stairs, trying to keep herself from keeling over. She felt faint, as if she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Jim had been there, right in front of her, and she'd let him get away.

* * *

><p><em>"You know, Annie," Jim whispered in her ear, as Moran pushed Emma's mother to the ground, discarding her for a moment, "I'm surprised that you're putting up this much of a fight. All that stuff you told that dad of yours, about how much you hated them," Emma saw her mother's eyes flick up to meet hers for a moment, but Jim continued, "I just thought you'd care less."<em>

_"Shut up." Emma was staring at her mother, trying to get across in her eyes alone how sorry she was. This was all her fault. If she'd never left her brother would still be alive. Her parents would be okay. _

_But they weren't. And it was all because of her._

_"Sebastian," Jim sounded lazy, as if he did this every other day._

_Then again, Emma mused, he probably did._

_She squeezed her eyes shut as the shot filled the room. Emma tried to cover her ears to her mother's wailing but Jim caught a hold of her hands and pulled them back from her head._

_"Open those eyes for me, darlin'" He drawled, "You don't want me to get angry, do you?"_

_Her mother was screaming, lying in a heap on the floor of the factory, covering her face with her hands. It was inhuman, the sound she was making. Then again, both her son and her husband had just been shot._

_As Emma saw her lying there, she felt herself fighting to get free of Jim's grip. Her body seemed to be moving independently of her thoughts. She elbowed the consulting criminal in the stomach and he doubled over, his hold on her loosening just enough for her to break free and run towards her mother. She expected Moran to grab her, to throw her down again, maybe break a few more bones for good measure, but there was nothing. Emma collapsed at her mother's feet, placing a hand at either side of her face, pulling it up to look at her._

_She wanted to say something to the woman, to comfort her, to apologise, just _something_, but nothing came. She just stared at her, mouth gaping like a fish, tears in her eyes._

_"Seb!" She heard Jim yell behind her and moments later she was thrown off, sent sprawling over the concrete, her ribs smacking against the ground, cracking. Emma screamed._

_"It's all for your own good, you know?" Jim grinned at her, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the girl who lay, sobbing, at his feet, "You'll see. It's all for the best."_

* * *

><p>"Emma? <em>Emma<em>!" Someone snapped their fingers in front of her face, and she screamed at them. There was a hand on her shoulder, "Calm down, we need to leave."

The hand on her shoulder suddenly gripped onto her coat and began dragging her towards the door of the flat. Emma looked up at Sherlock, her eyes wide,

"He showed her the bodies before he killed her." She whispered. The detective just looked at her, seemingly puzzled, before shaking his head microscopically and continuing to pull her out of the flat.

Once they were out on the street Sherlock released his grip and moved away from Emma, who began wiping tears away from her face. She wasn't sure where they had come from.

"Can he do that?" John started, still sounding shaken up, "Completely change his identity? Make _you_ the criminal?" He pointed vaguely to Sherlock, to whom he had been talking.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, "He's got my whole life story," He explained, pacing in the street, "That's what you do when you sell a big lie: you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

"Your word against his." John shrugged.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, "He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the past twenty four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's –" He stopped dead, becoming motionless.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"There's something I need to do."

"What?" John took a step towards him, "Can we help?"

Sherlock held up a hand, "No," He answered quickly, "On my own." He began walking away, and John and Emma were left staring after him alone.

"What now?" She looked to the older man for an answer, but he only shrugged, "Can we go home?" She pressed on, stepping towards John.

"CID will still be there, waiting for us to get back." He shook his head, "Mycroft."

"What?"

"We need to see Mycroft." He said quickly.

Emma sighed, shifting her weight slightly to try to relieve her leg of some pain, "Can we not, please?" John turned to look at her, finally ripping his eyes away from where Sherlock had been. Emma pointed to her leg and raised her eyebrows. John sighed.

"You have, uh, that friend, right? Can't you go, I don't know, camp out at his for the night?" He suggested.

"I'll need money for a taxi."

"Right," John paused, before nodding and fishing around in his pockets, "Text me. Let us," He stopped himself, "_Me_ – let me know that you're okay."

Emma took the money from John, gave him a half-hearted smile, and turned away from him, making her way back to the main road to find a taxi to Oliver's. She thought it best to leave John alone; she could see he was confused and somewhat distressed. He didn't understand why Sherlock had gone, and neither did Emma, but she didn't care, not anymore.

She just wanted to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14 - No Light, No Light

**A/N - so here we are, the end for sherlock and the beginning for emma (also cute emma and oliver scenes but yknow the chapter couldnt all be sad could it?)**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 14 – No Light, No Light<span>**

It was past midnight by the time Emma arrived outside of the children's home Oliver lived in. She considered knocking on the door for a moment, before realising that technically she was still on the run from the police, and instead pulled her phone out of her pocket.

The phone rang out the first time Emma called Oliver, however the second time he picked up on the fourth ring.

"Wha's goin' on?" Oliver croaked down the phone, "'You alright?" He was trying to sound concerned, but there was a distinct hint of annoyance at being woken up, "I haven't seen you for ages."

"I'm outside. Come let me in." She then considered that it might be a good idea to be polite, "Please."

There was the sound of clattering down the phone line; Oliver had fallen out of bed, "What are you playing at?"

"Just," Emma sighed, "I'll tell you when you let me in."

"Fine." The line went dead.

It took Oliver fifteen minutes to get downstairs, and Emma amused herself by imagining him sneaking around the house like a spy, hiding around corners and doing forward rolls down corridors. In reality he was probably just trying to find the keys to the front door.

The door swung open and Oliver peeked his head around. He looked half-asleep, his eyes barely open, and his words were slightly slurred,

"Are you going to –" He stopped, his eyes widening slightly, "Jesus, what happened to you?"

Emma pushed past the boy into the building, "Long story. Can I crash here for the night?"

Oliver hesitated, before pushing the door shut and facing Emma again, "Uh, I think that there's an empty room, you could sleep in there. Now can you _please _tell me what's happened to you?"

Emma wasn't listening; she was busy checking down the corridor to make sure no one was there. _He_ had already followed her once, to Kitty's house, who was to say he wouldn't be following her here as well?

"Emma? Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" She turned back to him, wringing her hands in an effort to stop them from shaking.

"What's happened?"

Emma stopped, forcing herself to review the events that had occurred since she had last seen him. Last time she'd spoken to Oliver had been before Moran had knocked her out, back when she had been reasonably happy with her life. Since then everything had collapsed around her. She had nothing. Nothing but Sherlock and John and Oliver.

She hadn't realised that she'd started crying, salty tears rolling down her cheeks. She shook her head at Oliver, who furrowed his brow,

"Emma, what's happened?" He continued. Emma just shook her head at him again. She didn't want to say it; she didn't want to admit to anyone else what had happened. She just wanted him to comfort her; she just wanted to not feel alone. She expected that he noticed, because he took a few steps towards her, before asking quietly, "Do you want a hug?"

It was at that point that Emma started sobbing, and she fell into the boy's arms, throwing her arms around his middle, her fingers gripping the material of his baggy t shirt. He said nothing, just held her until she stopped crying. When she did she pushed him away from her, standing back on her own, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her bruised hands.

"I thought you said you didn't like to be touched?" Oliver raised an eyebrow at Emma, who couldn't help but laugh.

"Yeah, it's been a rough couple of days," She shifted her weight slightly, resulting in a wave of pain spiking up her leg from her knee. Emma hissed, before pointing at her knee, "Speaking of, I'd quite like to sit down."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, the two were hidden in Oliver's bedroom, Emma having stolen his bed because she insisted she was the more tired of the two, and Oliver sat watching her in a desk chair. The room was only dimly lit by a small wall lamp, as having the main light on might arouse suspicion if any of the other residents woke up.<p>

"So you want to tell me what's made you look like an aubergine?" Oliver asked, leaning forward so that he was resting his elbows on his knees, his face cast in shadow.

"An aubergine?" Emma queried, quirking an eyebrow at the boy, who shook his head.

"You're purple. Because of the bruises." He laughed lightly, yet an air of concern still surrounded him.

Emma sighed, "Are you ever going to drop this?" Oliver shook his head no, so Emma pressed on, "Remember Crown Jewels Guy?"

"Moriarty?"

"Yeah," Emma's eyes swept quickly around the room, just to check that they were still alone. She couldn't shake the feeling that _he _was there, "Well he sort of kidnapped me? I don't know how to explain it but, uh," She paused, biting her lip, "Well, he killed my mum and my stepdad," Her voice was quieter now, even quieter than the low whisper they had been speaking in in the first place, "And my little brother."

Oliver pushed himself out of his seat, moving forwards to kneel on the floor by the bed, his face level with Emma's, "You're kidding, right?"

Emma shut her eyes for a moment, "Would I joke about a thing like that?" She shook her head, "Anyway 'Mr. Moran' did this to me because I didn't follow orders. Well, most of it, anyway," She pointed to the scab that ran down her right cheekbone, "That was Jim."

"Jesus,"

"I know, right?" Emma rolled her eyes at Oliver, who continued to gape at her, "Can you stop staring at me like I'm some exhibit in a freak show? I've had enough of that in my life."

Oliver caught himself, shaking his head slightly and returning his expression to one of concern, "Oh, sorry," He looked ashamed of himself.

"No, you didn't mean it, I'm sorry. I've just been a bit touchy of late."

"Well, there's kind of a good excuse for that." Oliver raised his eyebrows and the two of them couldn't help but chuckle, until Emma slapped him lightly on the arm,

"Oi, don't make me laugh about the death of everyone I've ever remotely _liked_."

He held his hands up in front of him in defence, "Woah, I didn't mean to." But his face still held an expression of amusement, as did Emma's.

Silence fell over the two of them for a few moments, and they sat simply looking at each other, smiling, until Emma broke it,

"Why do you make me happy? I don't understand, no one's ever done that before." She wasn't searching for a sentimental answer, she simply wanted to understand. She still didn't know if she cared for this boy, though she was starting to think that Mycroft had been wrong, maybe someone _did _care about her – maybe he was staring her right in the face at that very moment.

"That's what friends are for, right?" Oliver shrugged, crossing his arms on the edge of the mattress and leaning towards her slightly.

"I suppose... Oliver?" Emma's brow furrowed, "Do you care about me?" She had to be sure. If Sherlock did go to prison after all of the events of that day then she had to be sure she would have someone, _anyone_, to protect her.

Oliver laughed, as if it was a stupid question, "You're my best friend, of course I do!"

Emma paused, "I'm your best friend?"

"Well, I didn't exactly have many before you turned up. I was the weirdo orphan who never stopped reading 'boring' books."

"Admittedly, _The Three Musketeers_ is pretty dull." Emma smirked; Oliver hit her lightly on the shoulder,

"How can you even say that? It's an action packed adventure full of swashbuckling and damsels! It's better than your favourite book." Oliver was trying his best to sound offended, but he was still laughing.

"Oh no, you _did not _just insult _The Hunger Games_." Emma glared at him.

"Maybe I did, it's not exactly the classic that _Musketeers_ is, is it?" He raised an eyebrow triumphantly, and Emma sighed,

"I'm going to stop this conversation here before I slap you round the face." She buried herself further beneath the duvet, "Goodnight, idiot."

Oliver scoffed, "I am not – ugh, never mind," Then, after a pause, "Just a quick question, where am I sleeping?"

Emma opened one eye, before shuffling over towards the wall wordlessly. Oliver quirked an eyebrow,

"You think we're both going to fit in this bed? I've had it since I was, like, ten."

Emma closed her eyes, rolling over to face the wall away from Oliver, "You're acting as if I'm fat or something."

* * *

><p>Oliver's CD player turned itself on at half past seven in lieu of an alarm, pulling Emma out of her dreamless sleep. She groaned and tried to roll over, before realising that she couldn't due to Oliver taking up the majority of the bed. He was still asleep, though Emma didn't know how; the music was playing pretty loudly by that point.<p>

_'And I'd do anything to make you stay / No light, no light / No light / Tell me what you want me to say'_

She elbowed the boy in the ribs and he swore under his breath as he jerked awake, "Shit, what are you -?" He paused, shaking his head, "Oh yeah." Another pause, "I've got to go to school."

He hopped out of bed and went to turn down the stereo slightly, before turning back to Emma,

"That means you kind of have to leave," He continued, "Preferably to a hospital, Jesus Christ."

Emma tried to sit up, but a searing pain in her ribs forced her back down, "Do I really look that bad?" She half-laughed.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, "Oh, trust me, you look awful."

"Do you say that to every girl you share a bed with?"

Exasperated, Oliver shook his head, looking down at his feet, before moving towards the door quickly, "I'm going to tell Jamie you're here; he can take you back to the hospital."

"Woah, woah, woah," Emma forced herself to sit up, hissing as her ribs burned, "Let's think rationally about this," She tried to swing her legs out of the bed so that she could stand, but found that her knee had swollen to twice its usual size and wouldn't move. She pressed on regardless, "What are you going to tell him? That I turned up in the middle of the night mumbling about serial killers and you just let me in and allowed me to sleep in your bed without alerting a member of staff? That, oh no, it's totally fine because she's only been followed by that murderer to one person's house, he probably won't even follow her here to this home full of children? Because that wouldn't get us _both _in a heap of trouble, would it?" She tried to stand up, but stumbled, catching a hold of the desk chair to steady herself, "Please, just let me make my own way there."

Oliver just stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head, "No, I'm sorry, but no."

"Oliver, please," She was pleading. She'd only ever pleaded with one other person in her entire life. Her knee was aching, and she pulled the desk chair around and sat on it, massaging her knee through the fabric of her jeans to try to stop it from hurting, "I don't know whether the police are still looking for me."

"_What_?" Oliver narrowed his eyes at her. They were still talking in a whisper for fear of being heard, but his voice had taken on a note of anger, "You're running from the _police_? What the hell did you do?"

"I punched a police officer, but mainly they just want me because I'm an associate of Sherlock."

"Why didn't you _tell _me?" He hissed.

"Because then you wouldn't have let me in, would you?" She raised her eyebrows at Oliver, and he sighed deeply, covering his face with his hands.

"Jesus, Emma," He moaned, "I used to have a quiet life."

Emma stood up and limped over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Me too, kid."

"Why are they after Sherlock, what's he done?"

"Nothing," Emma insisted, "It's all Jim!"

"Jim?" Oliver looked puzzled, "Why aren't they after him, then?"

Emma rolled her eyes at the boy, "Because he's _smart_, he's planted this doubt in everyone's heads, they _want _to believe that Sherlock's a fake – that he set up all the crimes," She sighed, "They're running a big exposé in the newspaper today about it, and about how he hired an actor to play Moriarty."

"But," Oliver began carefully, "And don't kill me for asking this, but how do you know that he's for real? How do you know that Sherlock isn't a fake? You've only known him for, what, three months?" He had his hands held up in front of him defensively, as if Emma was going to throw something at him.

"Oliver, I told you exactly which Disney movie you had been forced to watch by the kids the other day just by your posture the next morning, don't try to tell me that they're right. If Sherlock was a fake how could you explain me? How could you explain Mycroft?" Emma's knee was throbbing, so she went back to sit in the desk chair, "There are more loopholes in this story than in a legally binding contract, but people are choosing to ignore them because they _want _to believe that they're not inadequate."

Oliver sighed heavily, turning back to the door, "The fact still remains that you need to go to hospital. Even if we don't tell Jamie then we can still get you an ambulance."

"It's not an emergency, ambulances are only for emergencies. Besides, if a great big van turns up, sirens blazing outside I think the social worker's suspicions will be aroused, don't you?" Emma cocked her head to the side, smirking, before taking her phone out of her pocket, "I could always call John, or just get a taxi."

"Call John, then; get him to pick you up and take you to a hospital." Oliver was becoming visibly irritated, and glanced at the wall clock that was balanced precariously on top of a pile of schoolwork, "Shit, look I'm going to be late. Just call John, okay? Sort it out, I have to get ready." He scooped up his uniform from where he had obviously thrown it the day before, and then left, closing the door with unnecessary force behind him.

Emma stared at the spot where he had just been. She felt... odd – like she was upset with herself for making him angry. She mentally shook herself, telling herself to snap out of it. She had bigger problems than _boys_ at that moment. Dialling John's number, she sighed, glancing around Oliver's room in an effort to distract herself.

"Emma? I told you to let me know if you were alright last night." John didn't sound angry, but his words were stern.

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. Look, can you come pick me up and take me back to the hospital? Because, to be honest, I'd rather like to be back on that morphine drip."

There was a pause in which Emma heard traffic down the phone line, "Alright, I'll get a taxi."

* * *

><p>Apparently Greg had done some fiddling, because on arrival at the hospital John told Emma that the charges against the two of them had been dropped, in order to 'focus the investigation more on Sherlock'. Emma had tried to be happy about that.<p>

Two hours after departing Oliver's, Emma had been left alone (or, as alone as she could be when she had been shoved in the children's ward, surrounded by screaming kids) as John had said there was someone he needed to see up in the labs. The way that he had said it suggested that Sherlock was hiding there – John was terrible at hiding things. Emma hadn't mentioned that she knew this to him, however, as he seemed to have a lot on his mind anyway. He came back a little later, visibly distracted,

"Mrs Hudson... I have to go." He mumbled.

"What? What's happened to her? Is she alright?"

"She's – Jesus – she's been shot." He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, however he didn't move to go.

"Fuck – you should probably –"

"Yeah, yeah," John made his way back out of the ward at a half-run. Emma sighed, turning to increase her dosage of morphine, mostly just because she could.

She closed her eyes and lay back against the pillows, trying to block out the sound of the children milling about in the rest of the ward. She was doing well, filling her head with white noise instead to drown them out, before she was rudely interrupted by her text alert.

A nurse nearby tutted at her, shooting her a look that clearly told her to turn her phone off, but she ignored her. Emma pressed the button to lower the morphine in her drip, before reaching over to grab her phone, swiping her thumb across the screen to open up the text message.

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 10:21 23/02/12 – Roof. Now._

Emma stared at the screen for a few moments, trying to work out whether or not he meant what she thought he did. Was he mental? He wanted her to go up to the _roof_? Why? Was he completely _mental_?

_Emma Stoneheart – 10:22 23/02/12 – Are you completely insane? Do you remember what happened last time you forced me to leave a hospital bed?_

Emma waited five minutes after sending the text before she decided she wasn't going to get a reply. She frowned at the phone in her hand, wondering what on _earth _was going on.

_Emma Stoneheart – 10:27 23/02/12 – I can't sneak out of here again._

No reply.

_Emma Stoneheart – 10:31 23/02/12 – What's going on? Are you alright?_

She was beginning to panic, her heart pounding faster and faster in her chest. Sherlock _always _replied – it never took him this long, he was even faster at typing that Emma was. She felt sick, her stomach twisting and her throat sticky.

Finally, her phone flashed in her hand.

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 10:33 23/02/12 – Don't believe a word they tell you._

And then, after a few moments:

_Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 10:33 23/02/12 – I don't despise you._

Something was wrong, and Emma wished he would just tell her already. When her phone didn't go off for another few minutes she decided that she would sleep again, lying back down against the pillows, closing her eyes. She kept her phone clutched in her fingers, however, just in case.

* * *

><p>She must have drifted off, because she was awoken abruptly by her phone, buzzing loudly on her stomach, having slipped from her hand in her sleep. She was disorientated for a moment, panicking because of the tubes in her arms and the bright white lights. Once she had her bearings however, she grabbed her phone and answered it, first noting the time (she had been asleep for only twenty minutes).<p>

"Emma!" It was John, sounding as if he had had the wind knocked out of him.

"John? Was Mrs Hudson alright?"

"Mrs Hudson? What?" He paused, swearing under his breath, "Oh yeah, yeah she was, that wasn't – it wasn't true."

Emma's brow furrowed, "What do you mean, 'wasn't real'?"

"It was a distraction. Moriarty, he –"

"Woah, what's Jim got to do with this? Why did he want to get you out of the hospital? Is Sherlock okay?" She paused, only for a moment to catch her breath, "Oh God, I've been asleep, what if he's been in _here_? Oh God..."

"No, Emma, you're fine," John's voice was shaky, quiet, "Moriarty's dead, but so is –"

"Jim's dead?" Emma interrupted. She didn't know how she felt about that. She wasn't even sure if it was true. Surely she'd feel it if he actually was? Surely she'd feel relieved?

"Emma, listen," He took a deep breath, "Sherlock jumped off of the roof." He said it quickly, his words practically tumbling over themselves in haste to leave his mouth, but Emma heard them clearly regardless. That didn't mean she believed them though.

"No. You're lying." She shook her head despite knowing that John couldn't see her, "He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't leave us alone."

"I'm sorry, I'm not lying," There was a sharp intake of breath. John wasn't crying, was he? "I wish I was."

Emma hung up the phone and stared at it, not being able to think of anything else to say. She felt empty. She _was _empty. She had nothing left.

She was alone.

* * *

><p><strong>i made blogs for emma and oliver on tumblr - if you want to check them out the links are in my profile (the urls are havnted-by-hvmans [emma] and living-in-a-shad0w [oliver])<strong>


	15. Chapter 15 -Going to Your Funeral Part I

**A/N - sorry its been so long but this has been a bitch of a chapter to write, therefore it is really not worth the wait - sorry!**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 15 – Going to Your Funeral Part I<span>**

Emma didn't want to sleep, because if she slept she might dream about him. About which 'him' she was thinking about she didn't know, but she supposed that it didn't matter. Sleeping would also be accompanied by waking up, which would allow her to feel like everything was fine for a moment before crushing her all over again.

She didn't really fancy that, if she was honest.

She hadn't moved since she had hung up on John. Her phone had buzzed several more times, but she hadn't touched it, she was just staring ahead, thinking about all that she had lost in these past few days. She felt odd – what she was feeling exactly she wasn't sure. She didn't feel sad she just felt... empty. That was it.

Her mother was dead. As was her stepfather and her little brother. And now Sherlock – and Jim, though she wasn't sure why she was upset about that. Was Sherlock right; had he actually got to her – infiltrated her thoughts? She didn't like that idea one bit.

But, then again, he was dead; how could he be in her head anymore?

"Emma!"

It was John. Emma wasn't sure how long ago their phone call had ended.

She didn't move, just kept staring ahead. Her stomach felt heavy, as if she was going to puke. Her mouth was dry.

"Emma, look at me please." He sounded deflated, empty. She shook her head,

"Is it over? Jim's really gone?"

She heard a sigh, "He killed himself."

Emma nodded in an absent-minded sort of way, "Like Dad."

There was a slight pause before Emma felt a hand on her shoulder. John said nothing, just kept a tight grip on her until she was able to wrench her eyes away from the white wall she was staring at to look at John. He looked pale; almost grey in his grief.

"I'm sorry."

John shook his head, "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Emma moved her gaze back to the wall, staring straight ahead, as if watching something in the distance, "I know, I just feel like no one's said it to you yet."

John squeezed her shoulder once in a comforting manner, "Well, thank you, anyway," Then, "Mycroft said he'd be here in a bit – he wants to talk to you."

"About Sherlock?"

"About you."

* * *

><p><em>"God, Em, you always look so miserable – lighten up, it's your birthday!" Lucy laughed, hitting her friend on the arm lightly whist flicking her gently curled blond hair behind her shoulders in a way that practically oozed confidence. Emma looked over to the girl, who was watching her expectantly, and stretched a grin across her lips, <em>

_"I can't help it; I just have an unfortunate default face."_

_"Pretty sure that's not a thing," Dani interjected from across the table, pointing a finger at Emma, "You know what I think the explanation is?" She addressed this to the whole group, holding her hands out in front of her as if to invite the rest into the conversation._

_Emma raised an eyebrow, leaning back on her seat so that it balanced on two legs, her arms crossed, "Go on, then."_

_"You're a grumpy twat, that's what." Dani tilted her head to the side, baring her teeth in a big, goofy smile as she and the rest of the table laughed._

_The waiter arrived amid their bout of laughter, and the girls calmed down for just long enough to order four pizzas (two meat feast, two vegetarian) and a jug of Diet Coke ("I can't have full fat, I'm counting calories," Lucy had insisted, picking at her nail polish absent-mindedly). Once he left, the red-head at the end of their table reached under her chair, producing a gift bag adorned with a shiny royal blue bow,_

_"And now, PRESENTS!" Chelsey yelled, practically throwing her gift bag up the table to Emma, who shook her head,_

_"I told you lot not to spend on me." She protested, though she picked up the bag from the table anyway._

_"We didn't really," Dani inputted, "Lucy, tell her the plan." _

_The blond sat up a little straighter in her seat, took a deep breath and began her speech, "Right, okay, you're going to love this. You know how you're always poncy about how books should be shared and how you don't like to buy new editions of things because you're super pretentious about things being loved by others before you?" She stopped, looking at Emma expectantly._

_"Uh, I guess – though I wouldn't say I was pretentious."_

_"Yeah, well you haven't had to listen to your famous 'every object deserves to be loved' speech. _Anyway_, getting back on track; we decided to honour that belief and we trawled every second-hand bookshop within a thirty-mile radius and eventually found you your present!"_

_"Wait, you all got me one present?"_

_"A present in many parts." Lucy interjected quickly, pushing her own silver-wrapped parcel towards the girl sat next to her._

_Soon Emma had seven similarly sized gifts stacked on top of one another in front of her._

_"So you got me a classics collection?" She raised an eyebrow at Lucy, who squirmed in her seat,_

_"God dammit, Emma, you're no fun."_

_"You do that every year." Dani pouted, folding her arms._

_Emma held her hands up in protest, "In my defence, a baby probably could have guessed that much – Let me try and get the titles!"_

_Chelsey buried her head in her hands, groaning, "Why do you always have to guess, it would be so much quicker if you just opened them."_

_"Yeah, but this is much more fun. Let's see..." Emma squinted at Lucy, who had gone back to picking at her nail polish – something she had started doing two years ago when her parents' divorce had left her with mild anxiety, not that she knew, "You know I already have all the Bronte Sisters books, all the classic horror stuff, and Charles Dickens so you won't have got me those..." Emma snapped her head up to look at Chelsey at the other end of the table, "And you know I love trashy romance novels so... Jane Austen?"_

_"Dammit, Emma; every fucking year!" Lauren, who had been characteristically quiet up until this point, smacked her hands down on the table, cursing._

_"Are you at least going to open them now?" Dani raised an eyebrow, speaking flatly._

_"If you insist," Emma smiled at her, before ripping off the wrapping paper of each of the books in turn (The larger volumes were _Sense and Sensibility_, _Pride and Prejudice_,_ Mansfield Park_, _Emma_,_ Northanger Abbey _and _Persuasion_, and the smaller _Lady Susan_, which Emma had not previously heard of), "Oh look," She smirked, "I was right."_

* * *

><p>Mycroft had said two things, both of which Emma had not enjoyed listening to. Firstly, she was to live with him from now on, seeing as he was the closest relative she had left. Secondly, the doctors had decided that, after the traumatic events of the past week, a full mental assessment was needed, to ensure that she wasn't suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.<p>

"I'm _fine_." Emma had said, though she could not look at the man as she said it.

Mycroft sighed deeply before moving into the girl's eye line, "Let's leave that to the medical professionals to decide, shall we?"

A week later, the medical professionals decided that Emma was not, as she so often insisted, _fine_, and she left hospital, still bruised at battered, but now carrying bottles of several different medications that were supposedly going to make her feel better about the whole 'dead family' thing.

Mycroft sat in the seat next to Emma in the back of the car that had picked them up from St Bart's, as she read the directions to him from the side of each bottle,

"Nefazodone, 200mg, twice daily; Fluoxetine, 60mg daily and Carbamazepine, 200mg daily," She lowered to bottle slightly away from her face and looked up at her uncle, "That one's just before I go to sleep to stop the nightmares." Mycroft said nothing, but nodded in understanding, before changing the subject,

"You had a call yesterday from your stepfather's sister that you didn't answer – I hope you don't mind that I returned it," He paused, looking at the girl, who shrugged, placing the bottles of pills back in her backpack, "Your family's funeral is tomorrow – I arranged travel for you to get to Glasgow in time." He spoke carefully, as if he was trying not to alarm her; Emma suspected this may be due to her new-found mental illness, and ignored it.

"So you're just sending me up there alone?"

"I thought you'd prefer it that way, or was I mistaken?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged wordlessly, "You'll be staying with the sister with whom I spoke; your aunt Stephanie?"

"Yeah, I know the one. She has two kids that like to jump on people, it's awful."

* * *

><p><em>Emma Stoneheart – 7:32 0103/12 – hey sorry i havent texted in a while i just wanted to let you know that im coming back up for my familys funeral and i was hoping you could come with me_

_Lucy Younger – 7:34 01/03/12 – JESUS EM WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN! You didn't even Tweet me I was getting worried after I heard about your mum – I thought you'd been killed too! Don't ever do that again, you utter twat._

_Emma Stoneheart – 7:35 01/03/12 – im really sorry i am i was just really caught up in a load of shit in london and forgot to text you_

_Lucy Younger – 7:36 01/03/12 – You were caught up for 4 MONTHS? You should be happy that I love you because if you'd have texted Chelsey about this she would've stabbed you I'm sure – she is super mad at you for running out on us without an explanation. _

_Emma Stoneheart – 7:37 01/03/12 – sorry i was kind of swept off of my feet by all this stuff and completely forgot about you guys – and i mean that in the least mean way possible_

_Emma Stoneheart – 7:37 01/03/12 – anyway i asked about the funeral?_

_Lucy Younger – 7:39 01/03/12 – I said I'd always be there for you, didn't I?_

* * *

><p>"Emma, I was getting worried that you weren't going to come!"<p>

Emma's Aunt Stephanie was very sick – in fact, her cancer was the reason Emma's family moved to Glasgow in the first place, almost seven years ago, so that Daniel could be closer to his sister. She was pale, with skin that seemed to be stuck tight against her bones and dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could cover. As she hugged Emma, an experience that used to make the girl feel a lot more uncomfortable than it did now, Emma could feel her spine through the back of her black dress. It made her feel sick.

Emma knew Stephanie had always expected Daniel to be burying her, not the other way around.

"Well, anyway," Stephanie pushed her away, holding her at arm's length by the shoulders as if to get a good look at her, "You're here now, that's what matters. I wanted to say – it's alright if you don't want to but I did allow some time in the service for you to say a few words, is that okay?"

Emma considered it for a moment – what would she say? She had openly despised her family throughout her childhood, yet her aunt still wanted her to speak? Despite all of her doubts, Emma still longed to say _something_ to everyone gathered there and so she nodded, "Yeah, sure, I'll do it."

Her aunt gave her a reassuring smile, though her eyes were sad, and patted her shoulder twice with a frail hand, "That's my girl."

As she walked away, Emma found herself thinking over that last phrase. _That's my girl_. Since when was Emma Stephanie's girl? Her aunt had never really bothered with her before that day, had never tried to speak to her when she moved away.

_That's the thing about death_, Emma thought, as she took a seat next to Lucy, _it warps people's perspectives on life_. _It makes them think that they were closer to people than they actually were_.

Lucy placed a hand on Emma's shoulder and whispered, "You okay, hun?"

Emma nodded, but moved Lucy's hand away with her own quickly.

The service dragged, though Emma wasn't sure whether it was because she felt sick or whether the actual thing was just boring. After what seemed like a lifetime of listening to different people stumble over their meaningful words – Andy's school teacher had actually broken down in the middle of reciting a poem, and Emma had almost felt sorry for her – Emma was called up to speak about her family to those who probably knew them a lot better than she did.

She felt the eyes of everyone there staring at her, watching her every move, waiting for her to speak. Emma wished she had had time to prepare, and swallowed hard, thinking of what to say.

"Uh, just so you know," She started, "I was only asked to do this, like, five minutes before it started so it's going to be awful." She took a deep breath, her stomach twisting, making her feel like she was going to vomit, "Okay, I'm not going to talk about my family today, because I can't – I'm going to talk to you about stars instead.

"Everything and everyone you have ever seen or not seen in this universe is made up of some type of element. If GCSE science has taught me anything that is that elements are created as stars decay, flinging them out into the universe where they collide and merge to form, well, anything. We are all made of stars, and so are my family, and when we die, our energy is dissipated into the surroundings. So, y'know, they're not really dead, are they? Mum could be out there as a Mayfly or a tulip in someone's garden; Daniel could be a blade of grass in a meadow or an apple hanging from a tree and Andrew could be – well, he could be anything, from a wave washing over the shore of some distant beach or –" Emma stopped midsentence, shutting her eyes and shaking her head. Her stomach churned again,

"I'm sorry, I couldn't carry on with that bullshit," she sighed, "I don't want to romanticise this – I don't want you guys to think of their deaths as beautiful and tragic things because they weren't; trust me, I was there. They were tragic, yeah, but they sure as hell weren't beautiful. They were gruesome and bloody and I was made to watch it all so forgive me if I don't want to sugar coat this.

"My parents are dead, and so is my little brother. They're not in heaven, they've not been reincarnated and they certainly haven't started haunting me – there's only one person doing that and he's been at it way before he was dead. My family is rotting in those coffins and no amount of kind words can change that. No poems or good sentiments will bring them back. I'm sorry, but that's the truth, and that's all I have to say on this matter." Emma could feel the bile rising in her throat, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and vomit."

She half-ran out of the building and into the churchyard, covering her mouth with her hand, as people stared at her, some in horror at what she had just said. She threw up in a bush, not bothering to move her hair out of her face, just glad that she could finally get rid of the sensation in her stomach and throat that had been bubbling for the past week. Her eyes welled up with tears as she fell back to sit on the grass, wiping her face with the back of her hand, letting out a huge, rattling sob for the first time since she had heard the news about Sherlock. Soon she was crying harder than she had ever in her life, sprawled on the ground in a church graveyard while her family were commemorated inside. She had lost everyone, and that fact had only just caught up with her.

She felt an arm slip around her shoulder as Lucy sat on the grass next to her,

"You want a hug?" She asked in a whisper, "I'm just asking because, y'know, you never went for them... before."

Emma shook her head at the girl, not wanting to be babied, not wanting her friend there at all – she didn't want to been seen like this. She had always appeared so strong before all of this happened.

Lucy nodded and moved a hand up to Emma's face, her fingers brushing the tears from her face, "I know it seems bad," She started, speaking in a hushed voice, "But I promise you –"

"If you say 'It Gets Better' I swear to god I will punch you." Emma sniffed loudly.

"I was _going _to say that you can always rely on me – I told you I'd always be there for you and I will. Anytime you need me, just give me a call. Though, as I said before, don't call Dani, she's super pissed at you for leaving us." She joked carefully, trying to bring a smile to her friend's face. It didn't work.

"What about everyone else? Do they hate me too?" Emma's breaths were deep and shaky, and she looked up at her friend's face with puffy, tear-filled eyes.

"Lauren calls you Judas now. Chelsey says that she is withholding judgement until she sees you face to face so you have a chance to explain yourself. I'm pretty sure Ellie and Georgia and Anna are pissed too, though."

"Great, so basically you're the only friend I have left."

"Unless you met some people in London you like better." Lucy nudged Emma with her shoulder, as if to coax her into telling.

Emma shook her head, "You know you'll always be my best friend, Lucy."

"Sure as heck, I do," She began to stand up, taking Emma's hand to help her up, "Now come on, let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

><p><em>'Going to your funeral and I'm feeling like a fool  No one's going to take the blame / Thinking 'bout the days of hanging out behind the school / Everything goes away'_

The music in the pub was too loud to hear the crowd of relatives packed inside of it speak. Emma didn't know how to describe the event she had been dragged to after the funeral – it was like a wedding reception but with less dancing and more crying – she just knew that people kept trying to talk to her and she wasn't enjoying it. At least twenty people had told her they were sorry in the past half an hour, and still she didn't feel any better.

"Lucy, can we leave soon? I want to go home." She pulled her friend aside from a conversation the two of them had been having with a teacher who had been a colleague of Daniel's, but who had also taught them English in their second year of school.

"I thought you were staying with your aunt tonight and going back in the morning?"

"Yeah, no, I can't do that. If I call Mycroft he'll send me home," Emma raised her eyebrows, "He probably has a car parked around the corner waiting for me, to be honest."

"Mycroft? Is that –?"

"My dad's brother? Yeah. I'm going to be living with him down in London now, apparently." Emma shrugged, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"Wait, so you're leaving again? Just like that?" Lucy looked genuinely upset, "I get to see you for one day after _four months _and then you're leaving?"

"I'm sorry, it's just," Emma sighed, "It's kind of complicated, that's all."

"Okay, shoot."

"What?"

"Tell me how complicated it is. You trust me, right?" Lucy put a hand on Emma's shoulder.

"Fine, okay," Emma closed her eyes for a moment, before looking at her friend, "My parents were killed, you knew that, right?" Lucy nodded and Emma continued, "They were killed by a guy called James Moriarty, and yes, I do know that the press is saying he was an actor hired by Sherlock but he _wasn't_. Jim had this plan, or something, to ruin Sherlock's reputation but alongside it he was trying to get to me. He killed my parents to break me, okay? He kidnapped and tortured me and now he's dead but _I don't feel like he's dead_, y'know? So yeah, I want to be with Mycroft – I want to be where I know I'm safe because if Jim really is alive then I don't want him to find me when I'm alone."

Lucy shook her head, "Wait, so Sherlock Holmes wasn't a fake? Then why'd he kill himself?"

"I'm still trying to figure that one out myself."

"But how can you be so sure he was for real?" Lucy placed the glass she held in her hand down on a table behind her and took a hold of both of Emma's shoulders, looking at her intently, "How can you be so sure he wasn't lying to you as well? That you weren't taken in by it?"

"Remember my last birthday, when you were all complaining because I always told you exactly what my presents were before I even touched them?" Emma tilted her head to the side, "I'm pretty sure it runs in the family."

Lucy let go of Emma's shoulders, giving her a small nod of approval.

"Excuse me," Emma said, indicating to the door with a wave of her hand, "I have a phone call to make."

* * *

><p><strong>AN - im away all next week at a fancy university summer school (ooh, fancy!) but the week after i should be able to get a chapter done?**


	16. Chapter 16-Going to Your Funeral Part II

**A/N - hiya, i have an update for ya! hopefully i should start uploading more frequently now (my summer school was great, thanks for asking), but i'm changing the format of chapters from here on in - instead of single songs they're going to be "albums", and so they might get longer, but then again that idea could prove horrible and i might abandon it. anyway, heres the next chapter - hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 16 – Going to Your Funeral Part II<span>**

Her head felt fuzzy constantly, like an old analogue TV that couldn't quite get a signal, turning all of her thoughts to nothing if she lingered on them for too long. There was a sort of ringing in her ears – white noise, almost – that no amount of music could ever drown out. She felt numb all the time.

She didn't feel like she was a real person; she felt like a character in someone's twisted story, mindlessly following every single thing they wanted her to do. No power to argue.

Emma leant her head back against the car seat, watching the countryside streak past the window as if someone had smeared an acrylic landscape painting. She had been in the car for five hours now, watching the barriers on the side of the motorway rise up out of the ground and sink down again. She thought about how much she enjoyed seeing them fly past the window – it almost looked as if they were the ones moving, not her, if she watched from the right angle – and considered mapping out the location and length of ever motorway crash barrier in Britain, but then realised that was the type of boring thing Sherlock would do and shook her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her face with her hands to try and wake her brain up, but it didn't work, obviously. She went back to watching the barriers, and thought about John.

She wished that he was there, because John always knew when something was wrong, and he always tried his best to cheer her up with a sarcastic quip or 'sassy' remark. Emma sighed, because she couldn't imagine the John she had seen at the hospital laughing and joking. He looked as if he had had all of the happiness taken out of him. He was frail, grey and broken. Empty, just like Emma.

The album Emma hadn't been listening to finished and the silence made her feel uncomfortable. She scrolled through the cover flow on her iPod slowly, passing over every album she saw, disillusioned with all of them.

She stopped, however, at _Electro-Shock Blues_, an EELS album she had never really liked before, due to its grim theme. She stared at the cover for a while – a child's drawing of a boy, a girl and their dog flying through a moonlit sky, the album title scrawled in a handwritten font, as well as the band's name. The album was about death – more specifically, suicide.

Emma pressed play.

She had read the autobiography of Mark Everett, front man and only constant member of EELS, a year or so ago – though when she said read, she really meant devoured. The book had taken her four hours to read, cover to cover, and had kept her enthralled the whole way through. She didn't understand how someone could live through the death of their entire family and come back fighting – come back stronger. Their deaths had inspired the album she was listening to, though his sister's the most. She had killed herself, though in a slightly less dramatic way than throwing herself off of a hospital roof. Now Emma was starting to see how E managed to go on, though only vaguely.

As an instrumental piano interlude played in her ears, Emma felt the fuzziness which had settled like a cloud on her brain dissipate a little, and closed her eyes, turning her head to the side into the headrest as if it were a pillow. She had already been to one funeral, part one was over.

Just part two to go.

* * *

><p><em>Lucy Younger – 19:36 0503/12 – You sure you're going to be OK tomorrow? I could still get down there in time to come with?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 19:37 05/03/12 – i should be fine oliver said hed come with me_

_Lucy Younger – 19:39 05/03/12 – OLIVER? You never mentioned a BOY, hun! You'll have to tell me about it once everything's over and done with, I need all the goss ;) As long as you're sure you'll be OK – text me tomorrow, yeah?_

_Emma Stoneheart - 19:39 05/03/12 – hes just my friend lucy for gods sake. ill be fine dont worry about me_

_Lucy Younger – 19:41 05/03/12 – It's your DAD's funeral, hun, of course you won't be fine. Don't do anything stupid, OK?_

_Emma Stoneheart –19:41 05/03/12 - ill try._

* * *

><p>Mycroft's people dropped Emma off at 221B Baker Street twenty minutes before the cab that was to take her, John, Oliver and Mrs Hudson to Sherlock's funeral was scheduled to arrive, and Emma was left on the pavement, staring at the door, not wanting to go in. She hesitated for a few moments, before banging the knocker four times, leaving it straight on the door. It didn't feel right to let herself in. A few moments later the door was pulled open by a white faced Mrs Hudson, wearing a black coat that contrasted starkly with her complexion. She jumped slightly as she saw Emma,<p>

"Oh, Emma, dear, come in," She stood back and pulled the door open fully, "I'm sorry I just – you look so much like him, that's all."

"It's fine, I get it." And she did. She felt a knot in her stomach every time she looked in the mirror. It was getting so bad that she'd started avoiding her own reflection. As she started up the stairs she turned back to Mrs Hudson, "Oliver should be coming, so if an unnecessarily tall guy turns up asking to come in, let him."

The landlady nodded, and went back to her own flat without another word.

The door to the living room was wide open, but she knocked on it before she entered anyway. John was sat on the sofa, seemingly staring at his armchair.

"Hey, John,"

"Hi," He didn't look up at her.

He was sat in her spot. He looked remarkably small, hunched over there; his elbow resting on his knee, fist under his chin. It was then that Emma realised he wasn't staring at his armchair; he was staring at Sherlock's.

She cleared her throat, not wanting attention, just wanting to make sure that John fully knew she was there (she suspected he felt pretty out of it, just like she did), before moving over to the table by the window and taking a seat. She watched the street, waiting to see the familiar sight of Oliver, walking with his arms crossed, hands gripping his sides. He didn't arrive for another ten minutes. Ten minutes of silence.

Emma kept glancing over at John, but he didn't move. Emma wondered if he was even breathing – he was so still.

She heard the knock on the door and jumped to her feet, scraping the chair back noisily – everything seemed so much louder in the silence. She could hear Mrs Hudson introducing herself and Oliver greeting her downstairs, and then heard two sets of footsteps approaching the living room. Emma felt useless, just standing there, so she sat down, pretending as if she hadn't noticed them coming.

Oliver peeked his head around the door first, giving Emma a weak smile, "Hey, Em," He moved into the room, followed by Mrs Hudson, "How was the funeral?"

"It hasn't happened yet."

"I meant your mum's." He sighed, sliding into the chair opposite her.

"Oh," Emma looked down at her hands, which rested on the table. She didn't feel like looking at Oliver right now, he made her stomach flip. It was not appropriate for a funeral, "I made a speech, people got insulted," She shrugged her shoulders once, flexing her fingers.

"Just like every other school day, then?" Emma knew Oliver had meant it as a joke – a meagre attempt at making her feel a little better – but she still felt hurt. It must have shown on her face because he quickly followed up with a quick, "Sorry."

"'S okay." She shrugged again, glancing up at him quickly. He was wearing a black button-down shirt, with his grey coat hanging loosely on his shoulders. He had bags under his eyes – Emma suspected that he hadn't slept much last night. Neither had she.

"Is John okay?" His voice was lower now, quiet so that the man in question couldn't hear.

Emma shrugged again, then stretched her arms, sliding her hands down the table, before resting her elbows on it and bringing her hands together in front of her chin, tilting her head forwards to rest her nose on her linked fingers. She glanced at John – Mrs Hudson was sat next to him now.

Both of them were staring at the chair as if they were waiting for something.

She looked back up at Oliver, "He's seeing his therapist again." She took another sweeping glance at the flat, "He's moved out." Her heart sank when she realised that. He hadn't taken much – she'd noticed that his books were absent from the shelves that Sherlock's still dominated, and that the paper lying in John's chair had a headline from weeks ago. She moved her hands into her lap, where her fingers fumbled with the fabric of her grey dress, rolling and unrolling it. She felt like she had to keep her hands busy these days, or they'd start shaking again.

Oliver made a sound of recognition, but didn't continue conversation. Emma went back to watching the street, waiting for the taxi to arrive, because she didn't feel like she should be looking at Oliver's face right now.

* * *

><p>The service had been awful. The four of them had made up the majority of the guests; only one bench had been filled. There was no sign of any of the Holmes family, which felt odd – surely Sherlock's parents would have come? Surely they didn't hate him that much?<p>

John had fumbled through a few words about his friend before breaking down and having to be collected from the front of the room by Mrs Hudson, who patted him on the arm affectionately whilst guiding him with an arm around his shoulders. Emma had decided it was best not to make another speech and so just sat, trying not to listen to the vicar. She wasn't sure why it was a religious ceremony – had Sherlock been religious? Emma realised she didn't know. She knew nothing about the man she was mourning; she barely knew enough to call him her father.

She had ignored the words of prayer coming from the front of the room and instead leant back against the pew, closing her eyes and removing the barrier that she had built to try to keep the numbness out of her brain. This didn't work however – she found her senses working in overdrive, not because of the funeral, but because of who was sat next to her, so close their legs were touching. She could feel every movement Oliver made, his elbow nudging her lightly as he fidgeted to get comfortable; the fabric of his dark jeans brushing on her exposed knee; his hand taking hold of hers tentatively...

Her eyes had snapped open at that, widening as she looked pointedly at him as if to say 'what the fuck are you doing?!' He had nudged her with his shoulder and nodded to the front of the room, before squeezing her hand in a way Emma supposed _had _been comforting. The vicar had been talking about her and she hadn't realised – talking about how Sherlock had cared for her and a lot of other bullshit that Emma was sure Mrs Hudson or Mycroft or someone had made up to make her feel better. Emma shook her head at Oliver before closing her eyes again and leaning back once more.

She hadn't let go of his hand.

After the service they had gone to the graveyard. Sherlock had been buried already – Emma had hung back, not wanting to see it – and she stood there with John, Mrs Hudson and Oliver (still clutching her hand – or was she clutching his?), not listening to Mrs Hudson's rant about how bad a tenant Sherlock had been. She had left soon after, leaving only three.

Emma had glanced at John, and she could tell that he wanted to be on his own, so Emma took a few steps forward, dropping Oliver's hand as she went. She had placed the same hand on top of the black gravestone and said the first thing that came into her head,

"I didn't despise you either."

And then she had turned and left.

Then there had been a taxi ride back to Mycroft's house, and then Emma had found herself alone in the house with Oliver.

"Are you okay?" Oliver asked, after half an hour of playing 'go fish', cross legged on Emma's bed.

She didn't look up from her cards, but nodded, "Yeah, sure." She threw a card down into the space between them. Oliver could tell she was lying,

"I know what it's like, y'know," He started delicately, "to lose your family. I told you they died, right?"

Emma nodded.

"Well," He continued, "I spent years, literally, blaming myself for that car crash – if I hadn't have wanted to go out for dinner they'd never have gotten run into by that drunk guy – and, Emma, you don't need to feel like that."

Emma put her fan of cards down in front of her and finally plucked up the courage to look Oliver in the eyes, "I don't _blame myself _for Sherlock killing himself."

"I'm not talking about Sherlock." He raised an eyebrow and Emma felt sick.

"If I hadn't have moved here –" Emma started, but was interrupted,

"Moriarty probably would have found you anyway, eventually – you're a Holmes, Emma, you could never _not _be a part of this." Oliver looked as if he was pleading – begging her not to feel guilty. Of course it didn't work.

"He'd have never known I existed if I hadn't barged my way into his life."

"You didn't _barge _your way into Moriarty's life –"

Now it was Emma's turn to interrupt, "I'm not talking about Jim."

"Oh," Oliver looked as if he wanted to reply but didn't know what to say. Emma picked up her cards again,

"Go fish."

* * *

><p>Two hours passed, and they still hadn't continued conversation. Emma hadn't even looked at him – she still didn't like the way he made her feel; on edge and stupidly happy at the same time – she didn't feel like either of those emotions were appropriate today. They'd moved on to playing spit now, and Emma kept winning. By the third time, Oliver stacked up the four piles of cards and put them back in the box, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans.<p>

It hadn't taken Emma long to notice that Oliver took a pack of cards with him everywhere. Whenever she was doing their homework he would sit across from her, setting out a solitaire lay, and at lunchtimes they would play pontoon or rummy. Emma suspected his love of solitaire came from him being an only child, and also the oldest in the children's home. This was also the time that she had noticed that Oliver was incredibly lonely.

"I think we've fed your ego enough for one day." Oliver said, his smile lop-sided.

"If you tried harder maybe you'd be able to damage it." Emma raised an eyebrow.

"From what I've seen it can't be broken – and it absorbs others to make it stronger." He laughed, and Emma grinned at him.

"I hate you," she hit him lightly on the shoulder, letting her hand drop back down into the space between them, where her fingers begun picking at the fabric of her duvet.

Oliver smirked at her, "No you don't."

Emma laughed – a short laugh that barely lasted a syllable – and looked up at him. The way he was looking at her was odd, and made her feel uncomfortable,

"Can you stop looking at me like that creepy guy in _The Fault in Our Stars_ please?"

"No," He laughed at her, "I like looking at you."

"Jesus, are you just quoting it now?" She shuddered overdramatically, "That book is so pretentious."

"Right up your street, then."

Emma hit him again, "Oi, I'm _not _pretentious."

Oliver shuffled forwards slightly so that the two of them were sat more on a diagonal. Their knees bumped against each other lightly. Emma wished that she hadn't noticed. He flicked her on the shoulder, "Sure you're not."

"You're the one who only reads classics," She mocked; he pointed over to the stereo,

"Yeah, but you listen to The Smiths."

There was a pause. Emma pursed her lips, angry that he had beaten her in an argument, before leaning her head against his shoulder. She was tired, and bored of conversation,

"Maybe we're both just as pretentious as each other." Oliver said, tilting his own head so that it rested on top of hers. Emma let out another half-laugh,

"Yeah maybe."

They sat in silence for a while. Emma could hear Oliver's breathing; it was shaky and nervous, it took Emma a moment to notice that hers was too – when had that happened? And, more to the point, why? He was just a _boy_, anyway, and she already knew that he liked her, so why was she scared?

Emma had only kissed one person before – a guy called Tom who had been overeager and clumsy with his hands. It was safe to say the Emma hadn't kissed him again, and had been rather put off 'romance' for the foreseeable future. But somehow she felt different around Oliver, and Emma wasn't entirely sure if it was a good thing, especially today. Four hours ago they had buried her father, and now she was contemplating making out with a guy she hadn't even known for half a year – somehow it didn't feel entirely appropriate – but it was just too tempting.

"Oliver," She started. She felt him move his head so it wasn't leaning atop hers anymore,

"Yeah?"

She continued slowly, "You know when we were at yours, and that annoying kid –"

Oliver interrupted her, "You mean Lucy?" He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. God, he looked good when he smirked.

"Yeah, sure, 'Lucy' or whatever," She waved her hand as if brushing off the subject, "_Anyway_, you know what she said – about... well, about you 'fancying' me?" She said the word with a hint of distaste, it was so childish.

Oliver was starting to go pink, his smirk dropping, "I guess – uh, yeah." He scratched the back of his head in a nervous fashion.

"You know how I said it was gross?"

"Yeah?"

Emma lifted her head from where it had been resting on Oliver's shoulder so that she could look him in the eye, "I kind of lied."

If it was possible, Oliver's cheeks got even pinker, and his eyes broke contact with Emma's, looking down at the space between them, where Emma's hand still laid, fingers fumbling with the duvet fabric. He reached out and took it hesitantly, and Emma didn't pull it away.

"You know when I said I didn't like you like that," His smirk appeared once more, tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I was kind of lying too."

"Dude, I know, I can read you like a book." Emma rolled her eyes, "I'm the daughter of a super detective, you think I couldn't tell?" She was laughing at him now, and he glared at her, pretending to be upset for a moment, before leaning forward and placing a quick kiss on her lips, as if it was an experiment.

She laughed at him, "Is that it?" and placed a hand on the side of his face, guiding it down to hers, where she crushed their lips together. She closed her eyes as she kissed him, because she felt like they should follow the proper etiquette, sliding the hand that had been on his face round to the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair. His lips were dry – nerves, she suspected – and the hand that made its way to her waist was shaking very slightly, the other, which held her hand, still, on the duvet, was sweaty.

She broke the two of them apart; this time it was her turn to smirk, "Nervous, are we?"

He laughed, "Shut up, I've never done this before."

Emma raised her eyebrows, "Really? I'd have thought you had."

"I don't know whether I should be insulted by such a remark." Oliver joked, "And anyway, I said I didn't have many friends before you turned up. And like you've done this before, anyway."

"I totally have!" Emma laughed, almost insulted by the fact that Oliver didn't think she could have had a boyfriend before, "Believe it or not, back in Glasgow I was popular."

"Nope," Oliver shook his head, "I don't believe it for a second."

"You're such a dick."

"That's why you like me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN - reviews would be nice!**


	17. Chapter 17 - Heaven Knows

**A/N - hello! sorry its been a while, i am an awful human being. also this chapter is shit sorry**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 17 – Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now<span>**

Emma stood silently outside of 221B Baker Street, willing herself to walk up to the door and knock, but her legs didn't seem to be listening to her. She sighed and shook her head, mentally shaking herself. She was better than this; it was just an empty flat, for God's sake.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched at their touch, before remembering that Mycroft and one of his people had come with her. Why was she here again?

"We can come back another day?" Mycroft sounded bored. Emma didn't blame him; this was the fourth day in a row that Emma had said she was ready to pick up her possessions. Incidentally, it was also the fourth day in a row Emma had been lying to herself.

"No," She said, standing up a little straighter, "I can do this. I want to do this."

She took a deep breath and stepped up to the door, grabbing the knocker and slamming it three times. Her stomach felt odd, twisted, as if she was about to be sick. She imagined this must be what soldiers feel like before they go into battle.

Mrs Hudson pulled open the door and Emma watched her eyes flicker from Emma's face to Mycroft's, and then to the man stood behind them holding a large cardboard box,

"I thought you were coming on Monday?" The woman pulled the door open fully and stood back to let the three of them in. Emma hesitated before crossing the threshold.

"We did come on Monday," Mycroft sighed, his annoyance apparent, "And every day after that. She couldn't knock on the door," He trailed off, looking at Emma oddly, before snapping his head back around to Mrs Hudson, "Some tea, perhaps?"

Mrs Hudson nodded, looking strangely intimidated by the man, and made her way back into her flat. As they stood in silence in the hallway, Emma could hear her bustling around her kitchen.

"Well?" Mycroft looked pointedly at Emma, gesturing towards the stairs. Emma furrowed her eyebrows,

"What?"

"You're the only one here with a key."

Emma laughed, short and harsh, "I highly doubt that." However, she turned towards the staircase anyway, placing a hand (still scabbed, still shaking) on the banister. After taking a deep breath, she started up the stairs, gripping the banister as if she would fall if she was to let go.

She barely even glanced at the door to the main flat at the first landing, but instead made straight for the second staircase up to her own room on the third floor. The room that had once been John's had been emptied and the door hung open, like a gaping mouth. The sight of it made Emma feel sick.

She unlocked her bedroom door, but paused before opening it, realising that she barely remembered what it looked like. She had spent so much time over the past few weeks fantasising about her home in Glasgow that she could hardly recall life at 221B. Perhaps she was blocking it out on purpose. That time had been both the best and worst four months of her life.

And suddenly the old habits kicked in and she grabbed the door handle, twisting it just a tad too violently and pushing the door open with a sharp kick.

The room was relatively small, having previously been a storeroom, and there were very little possessions cluttering the desk and shelves. Emma had never bothered to go back to bring all of her things to London, all that she had brought were her books (only the paperbacks, the hardbacks were still in Scotland) and her clothes, as well as her phone, CDs, iPod and laptop.

There was a bookcase to the right of the door, which was wide and short. Emma would often sit on top of it when she was trying to think – she found comfortable surfaces dulled the thought process. The shelves were full, even the spaces above the standing volumes had been filled with horizontal books, stacked atop each other. The desk had a few school books and her laptop, and was pushed against the adjoining wall, taking up all but a metre of the space opposite her bed.

The man Mycroft had brought with them set about taking the books off of the shelves, filling the first of the cardboard boxes. Emma had filled a suitcase with those books four months ago; however a few extra volumes had been added to the collection since. Mycroft noticed, and he went to pick up the only hardback from the box.

His hand gripped the leather-bound volume as he inspected the cover,

"Fairy tales," He commented. Emma only shrugged, so he continued, "You didn't strike me as the type."

"I'm not, it was a gift." Emma said shortly, taking it from him before he found the inscription inside. She clutched it to her chest for a few moments before throwing it down into the almost overflowing box.

"Whoever bought it evidentially doesn't know you very well."

"He knows me better than you do." Emma didn't know why she said it, or even that she agreed with her statement. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Neither said anything else on the subject.

Emma climbed up onto her mattress, beginning to take down the posters blu-tacked to the wall above her bed. She didn't like this. It all felt very final.

She peeled off the first poster – a Smiths one that John had bought her as a housewarming gift- and rolled it up, securing it with a bobble from her wrist. There had only been five things stuck one her walls, the poster from John, another that she had bought herself of Jenifer Lawrence as Katniss in _The Hunger Games_ (The movie hadn't come out yet, but Emma had already started buying merchandise), two photographs and a newspaper clipping. The photographs were stuck up on the wall next to her pillow. The first was a very old Polaroid of Emma and Lucy and a man in a Winnie the Pooh costume, the type you get at Disney Land, but cheaper. It was at their primary school gala, and Emma was laughing hysterically at something that Lucy had said. She wasn't blonde back then, and Emma hadn't been as thin.

The second was more recent, taken on a mobile phone during break at school. Oliver was grinning at the camera like an idiot, his arm disappearing out of frame to where he was gripping the phone; Emma was laughing at him. She didn't think she looked bad when she laughed. She should do it more often. The photo had been printed off at the children's home onto cheap paper that was curled at the edges with a cheap printer that left lines across the image. A corner ripped off when Emma took it down and she swore under her breath.

She made sure she was more careful, therefore, with the newspaper clipping that had been stuck on the wall behind her desk.

_'BOFFIN SHERLOCK SOLVES ANOTHER'_ screamed the headline, which framed a photograph of the detective in a deerstalker. It was the article that had made her get out. It was the article that had got her where she was. She had had to keep it as a reminder of why she was there, why she had to stay.

Now she had to keep it because it was the only photo of him that she had.

She pulled out her backpack from under her bed just as Mrs Hudson came in with two mugs of tea, placing them down on the desk lightly. The liquid sloshed around in the top of the cups sickeningly as she did so.

"Emma, dear," She started, and Emma's eyes rose from the tea to the woman quickly, "There's a parcel downstairs for you, on his chair." She paused as if she was finished, then, when she realised Emma wasn't going to say anything, asked, "Would you like me to go and get it?"

Emma thought about letting her go, before shaking her head and standing from where she was crouched by her bed, "I'll go."

The living room was too quiet, the kitchen too clean. Even though Sherlock's possessions were still strewn about, the flat seemed empty. A hollow shell of what it once was. A house, but no longer a home.

Emma shook herself and went over to the armchair, picking up the neatly wrapped present from where it had been left weeks before.

No it hadn't.

Emma closed her eyes, trying to remember the day of the funeral clearer in her mind. The chair had been empty – John had been staring at it. The present was new to this scene, so either Mrs Hudson had found it elsewhere and put it there or –

Or he wasn't dead.

She turned over the package a few times in her hands absent mindedly, mulling over this theory for a few seconds, her fingers picking up the familiar shape of a book. She picked at the tape sealing it and opened one end, careful not to rip the paper, and then slid the volume out into her hand. It was a hardback copy of H. G. Wells' _The Invisible Man_. It was old – second-hand. Emma smiled, and flipped open the cover.

_Happy birthday, sorry it's late – SH_

Emma closed it and pulled it into her chest, hugging it tightly as if it were the man who gave her it.

"But _how _late?" She muttered.

* * *

><p>Her room at Mycroft's was bigger than any she'd had before. However, seeing as she had only ever been in converted offices and storerooms before that wasn't saying much. While she had been out someone had put up bookshelves on the wall opposite her bed, next to the door to the bathroom, and so Emma went about filling them from the box of books on her bed. She closed the door and turned on her music, playing it much louder than necessary, in order to show Mycroft she didn't want to be disturbed.<p>

"_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour / but heaven knows I'm miserable now_" She sang along, her voice flat and sagging, as she emptied the boxes of her possessions first onto her bed, and then around her room.

It took hours, but eventually she had arranged her things almost exactly as they had been in her old room at 221B – or, as close as she could get them. Her posters were tacked up on the wall, as well as the photographs and the newspaper article. She looked at the photo of her father for a few moments, before tearing her eyes away to look at the only thing she hadn't found a place for yet.

The book sat on her duvet, its cover screaming at her.

_The Invisible Man_.

It was like he was trying to tell her something. She felt like he may as well have just written "NOT DEAD" across the cover in Sharpie.

She hadn't felt it, when she had heard. Usually when you hear someone's died you _feel _it, so what did it mean? John wouldn't lie to her about something like this, and Sherlock would never do something so terrible to John, would he? She wouldn't put it past Mycroft to be so deceitful and dishonest, but she could never imagine Sherlock, who had just seemed to be warming to her, being so cruel.

She shook her head, sitting down on the bed, crossing her legs and leaning her elbow on a knee, her hand cupping her face. She kept looking at the book, but she didn't want to read it. She didn't even want to touch it.

She shuddered – she had that feeling on the back of her neck that made her feel as if she was being watched.

Then again, in this house she probably was.

Pulling her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie, she swiped it unlocked and checked the time. It was three thirty in the afternoon – Oliver would be walking home from school. She called him, putting the phone on speaker and placing it down next to the book on her bed.

He picked up on the fourth ring, "Em, what's up?"

She frowned at the phone as if he could see her, "Why must something be up?"

"You only ever ring me when something's up; it's always me who rings you."

She sighed pointedly – loud, so he could hear, "Maybe I just wanted to talk to you."

"You never want to talk to me."

He had a point. Emma shrugged, "Yeah, okay. Anyway, so I went to 221B today and –"

"Shit, what were you doing there?" Oliver interrupted, all jokiness gone from his tone.

"I ran out of clothes and I needed to pick up my stuff," Emma said quickly, "_Anyway_, when I was there I found my birthday present from Sherlock." She was still staring at the book. The dust cover was slightly battered at the corners.

"Your birthday was weeks ago, why hadn't you found it before?" He paused and Emma could hear the sound of traffic – he was crossing the road, "Surely you would have found it before the funeral."

"You see, that's what I thought," Emma leaned a little towards the phone, "He got me a copy of _The Invisible Man_ – doesn't that mean something?"

"What a great book," Oliver was clearly distracted.

"Ol, this book wasn't there a few weeks ago – it appeared out of thin air sometime between my last two visits to 221B. It's from Sherlock; he's written in the front."

"So? Maybe he'd left it in his room and Mrs Hudson found it."

"Mrs Hudson can't bear to look at me in the face, what makes you think she could go in Sherlock's room?" Emma shook her head, "No, I think he put it there."

"Emma," Oliver started carefully, his voice holding a tone of pity.

"Yes, Oliver, I know he's supposed to be dead," Emma snapped, stopping him halfway through his sentence, "but what if he isn't? What if it was all an elaborate trick to get Jim to kill himself?"

"That seems highly improbable –"

"Not impossible, though?"

There was a pause, before she heard a sigh, "Nothing's impossible when it comes to Sherlock."

Emma felt triumphant, "Exactly. And I was thinking – I didn't see what happened so I could try and get a hold of the CCTV footage of the street and –"

"Woah woah, Emma," Oliver spoke over her, "One: do you _really _want to see that and two: how are you going to get the security footage? You can't just request things like that, can you?"

"My uncle is pretty much in charge of the country."

There was a pause, "Oh yeah, I forgot about that." Emma could hear the jingle of Oliver fumbling with his keys down the phone and decided that she should leave him alone,

"Anyway, you're home now, I'll let you go."

"No, it's okay, I haven't spoken to you in ages –"

"Oliver," Emma sighed deeply, "I'll see you at school tomorrow, okay?"

She went to hang up, silencing Oliver's protests of "Wait you never said you were coming back!", and lay back on her bed, covering her face with her hands for a moment, breathing out sharply. She'd said it now – she _had _to go back. Part of her wanted to see Oliver; part of her never wanted to see any of the other students again. She sat up, swinging her legs down onto the floor, and then left to go and inform Mycroft of her decision.

* * *

><p>When the sleek, black car pulled up outside of the school gates, many of the students stopped to stare. Emma sunk down in her seat a little, suddenly feeling extremely self conscious. She still had a pale, smooth scar running down her right cheekbone, sticking out oddly from the rest of her face, and she had lost a lot of weight. Emma thought she must look insane.<p>

One of Mycroft's people, whom her uncle had assigned to her as a chauffeur (which she had been unnecessarily excited about), opened the door to let her out and she climbed from the car, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as she went. She nodded to the driver in thanks and hurried off through the staring crowd as quickly as possible, looking down at her shoes.

Oliver was at their usual table in the cafeteria when Emma got there – elbowing her way through the crowds of year sevens – and he grinned at her as she slid into the seat opposite him.

"Emma!" Was all he said, his cheeks going slightly pink. He had been playing solitaire, and hastily began scooping the cards up into their box.

"That's me," She flashed him a smile, but it dropped quickly, "Is it just me imagining things because I've not been here in a while, or are more people staring at me than usual?" As she said this she glanced to her right to catch three year ten boys muttering whilst throwing looks in her direction.

"Ah." Oliver looked down at his box of cards, picking at the plastic coated cardboard with his thumbnail.

"What?" When Oliver did not reply to her, Emma leaned closer to him, attempting to get into his eye line, "What do you know?"

"We're going to be late for English," Oliver put the deck of cards into his blazer pocket and stood up, avoiding Emma's gaze.

"No we're not – _what_ aren't you telling me?" She pulled him back down by his tie and glared at him. Oliver gulped.

"The papers have been talking about you." He said quickly.

"_What_?"

"They've not been very nice."

"Fucking hell," Emma buried her head in her hands, groaning, "What have they been saying?"

"Essentially..." Oliver trailed off, thinking, "Well, basically they've been saying that you're mental." He looked embarrassed and glanced over at the year ten boys that Emma had noticed. She suspected that they had been quite vocal on the subject.

Emma raised her eyebrows, her heart sinking a little, "Well, that's slightly true."

Oliver tutted, "Don't say that."

"Why not, it's true, isn't it?" Emma sighed, slamming her hands down on the table and standing up, "Come on, we have to get to English."

* * *

><p><strong>AN - hahahahahaha this is terrible**


	18. Chapter 18 - If I Needed Someone

**A/N - sorry it's been a while! Had a lot of stuff to do, but yeah I'm back now with a chapter in which p much nothing happens apart from foreshadowing and bonding over coffee. Hope you enjoy :D**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 18 – If I Needed Someone<span>**

**_DAUGHTER OF FAKE GENIUS LEFT MENTALLY UNSTABLE_**

_Emma Stoneheart, 16, was seen earlier this year assisting notorious detective Sherlock Holmes during the investigation into James Moriarty's break-in at the Tower of London late in 2011. It has recently been revealed that Stoneheart, confirmed to be the estranged daughter of Holmes, has been regularly visiting London's top psychologist, on the orders of her guardian, whose identity remains a closely guarded secret._

_It has been speculated that Miss Stoneheart has been left with severe mental health problems after the killing of her family by the aforementioned Moriarty – later revealed to have been a character created and controlled by Holmes. It has been rumoured that the violent nature of the events witnessed by the impressionable teenager could have led to reckless and unstable behaviour, resulting in Stoneheart being suspended from school for the past six weeks._

_A source from the school has described Stoneheart's behaviour before the incident as "hostile towards the other students – cold and uncaring". It is thought that Holmes' suicide could only contribute to the girl's sociopathic behaviour._

* * *

><p>"I told you they weren't nice."<p>

Oliver bit his lip as Emma threw the last of five newspapers down on the boy's bed, next to where they sat cross-legged opposite each other. He looked embarrassed to have shown her them, and his eyes kept flicking away from hers whenever Emma attempted to make eye contact.

"They were a blatant breach of my privacy, not to mention disgustingly ableist – I'd say 'not nice' is a bit of an understatement, Ol." Emma's fingers picked at the corners of the newspaper's front page for a few moments, before she looked up at the boy, "Do you have any idea who their source is?"

Oliver shrugged, his eyes a strange kind of sad. They both knew but they didn't want to say it: the source could have been anyone in their year; everyone hated her, apart from Oliver. It was her own fault – the source was right, she had been cold and hostile towards her classmates, punishing them for even daring to try to speak to her. No wonder they were all too happy to make her out to be a dangerous freak in the media.

They were silent for a while, both looking down at the newspapers, before Oliver looked up at her,

"I'm sure they'll forget about you in a few weeks – Sherlock's the in thing right now, but they'll move on to something else, they always do."

"They'd better," Emma pinched her nose, sighing, "this barely even qualifies as news – don't they have murderers to talk about?"

Oliver shrugged, "People like gossip, I guess."

"They don't just _like_ it; they feed off of it, like leeches. It's disgusting and unhealthy, in my opinion."

"Yeah but," Oliver looked uncomfortable, "you know, it's what sells, isn't it?" He shifted slightly, "Anyway, as I said, people will forget in a week or two."

Emma shrugged, frowning. A silence fell upon the two, laboured and thick, neither wishing to make eye contact with the other. It made Emma feel uncomfortable, so she changed the subject,

"What have I missed?"

Oliver's head snapped up from where he had been staring at his fingers, "What?"

"At _school_, Ol."

"Oh, right," He nodded, still looking mildly confused, "Probably just stuff you already know, to be honest – the life cycle of a star in physics –"

"Check," Emma inputted, nodding to indicate she had learnt this before.

"-Biofuels in biology –"

"Yep,"

"You know what?" Oliver smiled a lop-sided smile, "Shall we just assume you know everything?"

Emma laughed, leaning towards the boy, "You're finally learning." She kissed him, and she felt his fingers entwine in her hair. When she pulled away she grinned at him, her hands resting on his knees, "I have a proposition for you," Oliver raised his eyebrows, his lop-sided smile back, "Don't get excited it's not a fun proposition."

Oliver leaned backwards slightly, dropping his grin, "Okay..?"

Emma sighed, her own smile falling from her face, "Mike wants me to go up to Glasgow to pick up my old stuff, and anything of my parents, before my aunt clears out the house – I was wondering if you'd come with me?"

Oliver's eyebrows shot up, "Oh? Oh, okay, yeah sure."

"You don't want to."

"What? No, I swear, it's fine!" He protested.

"No, you've gone all hunched over, you're uncomfortable with this, you don't want to go, it's fine." Emma held her hands up, shaking her head, "I'll go on my own."

Oliver scoffed, "I am not letting you go back to that house on your own, no way."

"I'm not a child, Ol, I can face an empty house."

"Yeah, but, _can_ you?" He looked at her knowingly. Emma shifted uncomfortably.

"That was different."

"How was it different? He's dead; they're dead – it's all the same."

"_Oliver_," Emma snapped, stopping him before he began a lecture, "You're not coming, that's an end to it."

Oliver laughed, "_You're _the one that invited me, so obviously you're worried about going alone."

Emma raised an eyebrow at him and Oliver smirked,

"Oh yeah, I can deduce stuff too."

* * *

><p><em>Emma Stoneheart – 1203/12 4:32 – coming up tomorrow with ol to clear out my old room if you wanna meet up at some point?_

_Lucy Younger – 12/03/12 4:33 – Oh my God yes! You're bringing the boy I'm so excited! Of course – we can go into town and get coffee or something :) You want any help with the house?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 12/03/12 4:33 – no its fine im bringing oliver for a reason :') ill see you around five tomorrow then?_

_Lucy Younger – 12/03/12 4:35 – Yeah, five is fine! Come round to mine and I'll get mum to drive us into town, she's been itching to see you – I swear sometimes she misses you more than I do :')_

_Emma Stoneheart – 12/03/12 4:35 – not sure if that was an insult? :') anyway, gotta go, olivers trying to talk to me and hes getting annoyed that im ignoring him_

_Lucy Younger – 12/03/12 4:35 – see you tomorrow!_

* * *

><p><em>The water was dark and cold, and it pressed oddly against her open eyes as she floated, submerged in the blackness. Her hair writhed around her and curled around her neck like the tentacles of some great sea monster as she turned her head, the pressure making her movements laboured and slow. Her chest felt tight, and she became aware of her lungs burning in her chest, as if crying out for air.<em>

_She closed her eyes against the dark, and moved her arms so as to swim upwards, but found that this movement took more effort than she expected. At this point she realised that what she was swimming in was thicker than water. Her lungs ached again, and she revised her thought._

_She wasn't swimming, she was drowning. _

_Her eyes snapped open again, and the darkness around her seemed to take on a more sinister tint as she realised what she was submerged in. There was a red tinge to the blackness now, but she did not care, all she cared about was swimming upwards. Her muscles burned with the effort of pushing herself upwards, complaining. Her mind became hazy, as if she just wanted to sleep. She did not let this faze her, still forcing her arms to move, dragging herself up toward the light that was now coming into view above her..._

_She broke the surface of the sea of blood, gasping for breath. She didn't have the energy to tread water, however she was kept afloat somehow, the sea reaching her chest as it heaved, her lungs taking in as much air as they could. She looked down; the liquid a dazzling red, her white t-shirt stained the same, blood running down her arms to rejoin the ocean. Now her brain was alert, she looked about quickly, snapping her head in all directions, looking for land to swim to, to find help. There was nothing. Nothing but the ocean for miles around, blending seamlessly into a burnt-orange sky at the horizon. _

_She wailed, high and animalistic. There was no hope. She was going to drown here._

_She felt something brush past her foot and she froze. She had been alone in the water, had she not? It had been too dark to tell. There was no movement at the surface of the water – perhaps she had imagined it? She shook her head, she was already going mad._

_She felt it again – this time it grabbed at her leg, but its grip slipped and it let go. She screamed, trying to move but finding herself stuck; the force that was keeping her floating above the ocean was now keeping her rooted to the spot. She kicked her legs, trying to make contact with the creature, to keep it away, but it made no contact. She could feel panic rising in her throat, feel the tears pooling, threatening to start spilling over onto her cheeks –_

_Contact. _

_The creature's hand was cold, its fingers curling unnaturally tightly around her ankle. She screamed once more, louder and shriller, her legs and arms now thrashing, trying to free her of the beast. She felt it start to pull her, and felt herself start to slide down into the ocean, the blood chilling her core. Her arms were under and she clawed at the darkness, trying to blind the creature, but she could not find it. It only seemed real at the point of contact. _

_She was up to her chin now, and she took one last gulp of air before her mouth became submerged. Her whole brain seemed to freeze as she panicked, squeezing her eyes shut, her limbs still flailing to try and escape the creature. She waited for the ocean to swallow her up but it never came. _

_She started to fall... down, down, down._

_She forced her eyes open and saw the pavement rushing towards her, commuters stopping to look up, to point. She forced her eyes shut again, just before the point of impact._

_Contact._

_Her body hit the floor of 221B Baker Street with such force that she cried out. The hand clutching her leg had released her, presumably during the fall, but she was still soaked with blood, and she opened her eyes to see it pooling around her as it dripped off of her body. The impact had cleared her head again, ridding it of the panic that had built up so suddenly before. She heard movement from behind her – the creature had landed in the living room too._

_Using John's chair as support (leaving bloody handprints on the material in the process) she stood, turning towards the beast. It sat, hunched on the floor, blood dripping down its bear back onto the floor, pooling around its feet. Its black hair was stuck to its scalp, as if it had just got in from the rain._

_It also turned to face her, grey eyes meeting those so much like their own, and spoke,_

_"Don't listen to them, whatever you do. They're always wrong. Don't just tell them they are, _prove_ to them that they are."_

Emma screamed at it, forcing her eyes shut. She tried to run away from it but found herself bound to the spot, and she clawed at her bonds, her breathing fast, tears streaking her cheeks. She was trapped, trapped in the dark again; she was tied up, she was going to die here, she was –

"_Emma_!"

She was in the back of a black car, on the motorway. Oliver was sat next to her. She had taken a nap. She had forgotten her medication. She remembered now.

"Emma are you okay? You just, sort of, freaked out! What happened? Did you have a nightmare?"

Emma pulled at her seatbelt anxiously, as if it might come to life and strangle her. She didn't want to answer any questions. She wasn't in the mood for questions right now. She said nothing, choosing to look out of the window, watching the crash barriers at the side of the road, instead of looking at Oliver.

"No, Em, I'm not kidding, are you okay?" She felt his hand on her knee. She shuddered.

"It was him." She didn't sound like herself when she said it. She didn't _feel _like herself. She felt like someone who was a million miles away from the car, floating through space, watching through some telescope that couldn't quite see the edges of the scene.

"_Him _him?" Oliver asked, which wasn't really a helpful question. He seemed to realise this and corrected himself, "You mean, like, Jim?"

"No, no," She shook her head, beginning to feel sick, "No, not him."

"Then you mean it was Sherlock?"

There it was. The name. The name of the beast that tried to kill her.

Emma didn't have time to respond to Oliver; she promptly vomited all over her jeans.

Her ears seemed to buzz, blocking out all noise from outside of her own head. She could see Oliver telling the driver to stop the car and help him clean her up, but she couldn't hear it. All she could hear was _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

* * *

><p>"I still think we should go back home." Oliver began, as they walked up the path to Lucy Younger's house, Emma in front, Oliver lagging behind.<p>

"You think a lot of things that are wrong." Emma retorted, as she knocked on the door loudly.

Oliver tutted, pulling her around to face him by the shoulder, "Emma, you were having a panic attack in that car – you clearly can't deal with all of this, we should go home."

"I'm not sitting in that car for another day and a half just to have to come back again next week. I'm fine, calm down." She went to turn towards the door again, but he stopped her,

"Please just take a day off before going to your old house."

Emma was about to reply when the door behind her was wrenched open and a high pitched squeal echoed down the street,

"Oh my God, Em!" Lucy practically jumped on her, "You have _no idea_ how excited I've been. Quick, come in, my mum's been dying to see you!"

Emma laughed, and grabbed Oliver's hand, dragging him into the house behind her, "Lucy, this is Oliver; Oliver, this is Lucy – she's not usually this excitable."

"I've had a lot of coffee." Lucy nodded as she shut the door behind the two of them, "And hi," she grinned at the boy, whose cheeks went slightly pink as Lucy half-whispered, "You didn't tell me he was cute" in Emma's ear.

Emma kicked off her shoes and followed the blond into the living room, where Lucy's mother was stood, wringing her hands.

"Hiya, Emma, love," She gave a warm smile, "How've you been since..." She trailed off, her hands gesturing in a 'you-get-what-I-mean' kind of way.

Emma glanced at Oliver, who was glaring at her, "I've been fine, yeah. Or as fine as you'd expect."

"What I'd expect isn't very fine, if we're honest." She half laughed, tucking her grey-blond hair behind her ear.

"_Mum_," Lucy said warningly, as if they had discussed this before, "I don't think Emma wants to talk about this."

Lucy's mother nodded as if she had just remembered this, and started backtracking, "So, do you kids want a lift into town? I've got to go to do some shopping so it won't be any trouble –"

"That'd be great, thanks, mum." Lucy smiled warmly. This all felt very rehearsed, "Oh, this is Oliver, he's Emma's boyfriend."

Emma made a face at the word, and Oliver elbowed her.

"It's nice to meet you," Oliver smiled at Ms Younger, "Sorry for turning up at your house unannounced."

"No, not at all; we didn't expect Emma to come up here all on her own, did we, Luce?"

"Well no, because she told us she was bringing him." Lucy pulled a face at her mother, "Anyway, should we go?"

"That sounds great, I'll get my bag." Lucy's mother announced before leaving the three teenagers alone in the sitting room.

Oliver cleared his throat loudly to cover up the awkward silence that followed, before asking Emma, "Why are we getting a lift with Lucy's mum when you have a driver?"

"She feels guilty. Everyone feels guilty when someone's family has died, you should know that. Just let her do what she wants, she's trying very hard." Emma shrugged. Lucy shifted her weight between her feet,

"Sorry about her, she's just a bit –"

"When you said she'd been looking forward to seeing me you meant that she was worried about me, right?"

"Yeah, I've had to give her a list of questions that it's alright for her to ask – she's a bit forward about it all."

"I'm used to it – they look at me like I'm some sort of freak show exhibition back home. Oliver's thinking of charging people to poke me with a stick." Emma joked, shrugging again.

"She doesn't think –" Lucy sighed, "She's worried, that's all."

"I know, I was kidding." Emma rolled her eyes, and moved toward the door, going to put her shoes back on before Lucy's mother came back and started quizzing her again.

They got to a Starbucks in the centre of Glasgow half an hour later, and Oliver went to grab them a table with a sofa in the crowded coffee shop while the girls queued. As soon as he left Lucy started shooting questions,

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since my dad's funeral." Emma shrugged, "Which, admittedly, is a _really_ weird place to start dating someone."

"So you _weren't_ lying to me before." Lucy nodded, "Have you guys, y'know..?"

Emma rolled her eyes, "You're disgusting. And no, if I'm honest I haven't seen him much since we started going out."

"What?" The two of them took another step forward as someone was served their drinks.

"I kind of hid from him, and everyone else, for a bit after the funerals."

"You are a terrible girlfriend." Lucy tutted.

"Why? Because I haven't fucked him yet?" To be honest I don't think he's that bothered."

"No, jeez, Em, keep your voice down," Lucy laughed nervously as several people in the queue shot Emma disapproving looks, "you do realise that if boyfriends are for anything, they're there as a shoulder to cry on."

"Okay I'm going to stop you there and remind you that I don't cry."

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

"Unless I've thrown up." Emma cleared her throat, pulling her wallet out of her pocket and trying to find the right change.

"Nice cover up." Lucy smirked. She looked up at the menu above the counter, "I'm gonna have to go decaf, aren't I? 'Else I'll go do-lally again." She laughed.

"Yeah, we don't want you awake all night, do we? I've seen sleep-deprived Lucy before, and she's not pretty." Emma smirked, raising an eyebrow.

Lucy pointed at Emma, "That's rude."

The people in front of the pair in the queue moved off with their drinks, and the barista smiled at them as they approached, "What can I get you?"

"Two regular caramel macchiatos please and –" Emma looked expectantly at Lucy, who jumped, wrenching her eyes away from the barista's lop-sided grin to look back up at the menu,

"Sorry, um, can I get a hot chocolate please, with cream." She flashed the boy at the counter one of her famous smiles – it was rumoured that they could cause 65.3% of boys to faint on the spot – flicking her hair behind her shoulder with a laugh.

"Jesus, Lucy, do you even know the meaning of subtlety?" Emma hissed in her friend's ear, trying to hold back a laugh.

"You say that, but this is how I got to sleep with Bobby Jackson." Lucy stood up a little straighter, sticking her chest out slightly. Emma looked taken aback,

"You slept with Bobby? Like, football team Bobby? Greek God Bobby?"

Lucy raised her eyebrows at Emma, smirking. The barista came back, handing them their drinks. Lucy's had a phone number on it as well as the initials of her drink.

"He's going to be gutted when he finds out you're sixteen," Emma shook her head; "He was at least 26, probably older."

"No way, he looked around 18. How could you tell?" Lucy asked as she slid onto the sofa next to Oliver. Emma frowned slightly, but sat on the sofa opposite the two, handing the boy his drink.

"His hair – no parent would allow their son to go to work looking like that so he obviously lives alone."

"18 year olds can live alone; maybe he's at uni?"

"He's a full-timer. He's been here for years. I remember seeing him when we used to come here before."

"Who's this?" Oliver cut in, putting the paper cup his drink came in down on the table between them.

"Hot barista, keep up," Lucy hit him lightly with her perfectly manicured hand, "So he's 26 _at least_. Ew, I can't stand older guys, they're so creepy."

"Oh yeah, I don't know why anyone would date someone that much older than them – or why they'd _flirt _with them." Emma looked at Lucy pointedly.

"I didn't know! Why didn't you tell me!?"

Emma laughed and took a sip of her coffee, feeling it warm her stomach, "I was kidding. Come on, let's go for a walk."

As they got up to leave, a familiar old song came on over the sound system, and Emma found herself humming as the three of them left the cafe into the cold, bleak street.

_'If I needed someone to love / you're the one that I'd be thinking of / if I needed someone'_

* * *

><p><strong>AN - leave us a review if you'd fancy :)**


	19. Chapter 19 - Changes

**A/N - hi, i just wrote this all in one sitting and i'm not sure if i like it or not but tbh i don't have time to rewrite and it does the job so here ya go**

**(it's also super weird sorry)**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 19 – Changes<span>**

_'Time may change me / but I can't trace time'_

* * *

><p>"Snap!" Lucy thrust her hand down on top of the pile of cards with so much force that she creased them. They lay in sleeping bags on the floor of the girl's bedroom, lying in a circle so they could play cards in the centre. The carpet was pink and worn, the same as it had been the first time Emma had visited back when they were kids; Lucy, however, was not the same as she had been back then. Neither was Emma.<p>

"Luce, jeez, these were expensive!" Oliver reprimanded, looking at the dented cards with woe in his eyes. Emma rolled hers,

"Paying seven pounds for a pack of playing cards is sort of asking for it, Oliver, especially when you suggested playing snap." Emma said, placing the queen of hearts on top of the card Lucy had just put down.

Oliver placed a joker, "They're Bicycle cards, Em, they're worth it."

"You're a massive nerd." Emma tutted, shaking her head, "why do I even grace you with my presence, you don't deserve it."

Oliver looked over at Lucy, his expression deadpan, "Was she always like this?"

Lucy grinned, "She never used to show anyone that much affection, you should feel lucky," she also placed a joker. Emma was the quickest this time,

"_Snap_, motherfuckers," She scraped the cards off of the carpet and put them on the bottom of her own pile, then looked up at the others, who were sighing, "You lot sick of losing yet, or should we play another game?"

"Oh, I'm sick, I am _super _sick." Lucy sighed, leaning her chin on her palm, "How 'bout you, Ol?"

"I'm used to it, I usually just let her play until she's bored," He smirked, "It's how she gets her kicks."

"_She _is still in the room, y'know." Emma threw the deck at Oliver, where the cards spread out around him like a flurry of snow. He protested loudly, but Emma didn't listen, she rolled over to lie on her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Jesus, Em," Lucy said, "He was _joking_."

"No, you were both joking – having a joke at my expense. And yeah, I should be used to it, I know, but I just thought you two would at least treat me like I'm a human being." She knew it was stupid, and that she was making something out of nothing, but it hurt to see them get along so well. She felt like they shouldn't; like they were both hers but they should never be each others'. She got a weird feeling about that.

"Oh, Emma, I'm sorry." Lucy immediately started to apologise. Oliver was silent.

"You know what? I think I'm gonna sleep now," Emma said, "I have a kind of big day tomorrow."

"Yeah," A pause, "Yeah, of course," Lucy got out of her sleeping bag in order to turn the light out, then climbed back in in the gloom, "Goodnight, Em."

Oliver didn't say goodnight.

* * *

><p><em>She was running.<em>

_Running so fast that she could barely stay on her feet, almost keeling over with every step. The walls were high and grey, like the buildings of a great, industrial city, but they had no windows, no doors. The alleyways just led to further alleyways. There was no escape. _

_She was lost in a labyrinth, and she was running from something._

_She could hear its footsteps behind her, pounding on the concrete. It was so close she could hear it breathing. It almost caught her coat in its fingers and she flinched, almost tripping. _

_Then, as soon as the footsteps had started, they stopped, and she was alone in the maze. She slowed to a stop at a corner, leaning against the walls to regain her breath. She turned, just to make sure that the thing was gone, before allowing herself a moment of calm. There was nothing there. It was gone._

_She continued around the corner and what greeted her made her scream._

He _was stood there, a grin so artificial and manufactured plastered on his features that he didn't look real. His skin appeared waxy and off-colour, a little too pale to be real. He said nothing, only stared._

_She tried to move but found herself rooted to the spot. She couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He wouldn't stop staring. _

_Blood dripped from his hands, pooling by his feet in little puddles. The colour seemed so strong in this labyrinth of grey, and was so stark against the paleness of his skin. It was beautiful. _

_The whole scene was beautiful. _

_She found herself moving towards him, though she did not know why. She was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. She knew he would destroy her, but she couldn't resist. He was so beautiful..._

_Her hand reached out to touch his face, but when she did it melted away beneath her fingertips. An overwhelming feeling of guilt flooded over her as his face bubbled and melted like wax, dripping down over the perfectly coordinated designer suit, tarnishing the puddles of red with white._

_Tears were starting to streak her face as he faded away into nothing in front of her._

_She had thought he was to destroy her, but really she was the one to destroy him._

"Jim!" She called his name as she struggled to free herself of the sleeping bag she was trapped inside, her eyes screwed shut. She didn't know why she had said it; maybe she was trying to bring him back.

Her eyes snapped open. Why, why on earth, would she want that?

"Emma, are you okay?" She felt hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stop moving.

"Um, yeah, yeah of course I am." She swallowed hard, because she could feel bile rising in her throat. Oliver was looking at her funny,

"What happened? It was Moriarty?" Emma had got into the habit of recalling her dreams to Oliver when she had them. He would document them, and the two of them would sometimes try to figure out what they meant.

"Yeah," Emma sat up, and turned to face him. Lucy was still sleeping, snoring lightly.

"And? What did he do?" Oliver pressed on, his eyes wide.

"Um, he was trying to kill me." She didn't know why she had lied, but it was her instant reaction, "I guess it must be the stress of going to mum's house today." She said it without thinking and instantly regretted it – only lies have explanations.

"Yeah, probably," Oliver watched her for a second, his gaze calculating, but then sighed, changing the subject, "You do realise that four of my cards are creased now because of you throwing them yesterday?"

Emma laughed lightly, quiet so she didn't wake Lucy, "I did warn you not to buy expensive cards, didn't I? And anyway, you deserved to have them thrown at you, you were being a dick."

"I kind of was," Oliver, looked down at his hands for a moment, "I'm sorry about that, I know you're getting a lot of shit at the moment."

"It's fine, I was just being over sensitive," She paused, "I'm not a sociopath, you know, even though the papers like to pretend I am."

"I know." Silence fell over the two; a thick, uncomfortable silence. Emma couldn't stop thinking about her dream.

Jim had seemed so different, so much warmer than the man she had known, even though the scene was so much colder. She didn't understand it – why was she so drawn to him? Why did he make her feel like that? She almost shivered, she was so disgusted by herself. In that moment, she hadn't loathed him, she had loved him. And she hated herself for it.

That was why she hadn't told Oliver. She loved Jim Moriarty.

Emma mentally shook herself. She didn't love him, he killed her family. Killed everyone she ever cared about. She was delirious. She was sleep deprived. She was –

"Emma, you're crying,"

What?

"Did you even realise?"

She hadn't, but he was right, there were tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly and sniffed loudly. Lucy shifted slightly in her sleeping bag.

"Emma?"

She hadn't said anything yet, had she?

"Are you okay?"

"Jesus, what's with all the questions?" Emma snapped. She glared at Oliver, who backed off slightly.

"Okay, wow," He raised his eyebrows, "I was only trying to help."

"I didn't ask for your help, leave me alone."

She felt sick, disgusted with herself. W hat was she doing? Why was she pushing Oliver away like that? She didn't feel real, she didn't feel like herself at all, like the dream had consumed her so much that she wasn't awake, even now. She could feel the bile rising in her throat again, and got up quickly, running across the hall to the bathroom.

She didn't bother moving her hair out of her face as she threw up, and once she stopped she collapsed back onto the bathroom floor, sobbing in the dim light.

Oliver stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light in the hall. He just watched her, offering no words of comfort, obviously following her orders to leave her alone. Emma couldn't look at him, she felt too guilty. It wasn't his fault she had had that dream, why was she acting like it was?

She sniffed loudly and looked up at him where he leant against the doorframe. His face was shaded, but she thought that she could see the faint outline of a frown on his features.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

Oliver said nothing, but moved into the room and sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her and placing a kiss on her forehead.

Emma only sobbed louder.

* * *

><p>Her mother's house had never seemed so big.<p>

Emma fumbled with her keys for a moment, her fingers shaking so violently she almost dropped them, before unlocking the blue front door and pushing it open.

It was cold in the hallway; the heating hadn't been on for the past month. The house was deathly quiet, and the silence was deafening. Emma had stopped just over the threshold, and found herself unable to move any further. A photograph of her mother, stepdad and brother hung on the wall adjacent to the door. Their smiles were sickening.

"Em?" Oliver's voice came from behind her, and she moved to let him and her driver (who was carrying several empty cardboard boxes) in behind her.

She dropped her keys in a bowl on the windowsill next to the door where they sat with her mother's, abandoned the last time she came in this house, not expecting to leave. It then occurred to Emma that Jim must have been here before. He stood in this hall. Had Seb drag Emma's mother and brother and stepdad away. Watched as they screamed and fought.

She felt hatred wash over her once more, and felt happy. Order was restored.

Emma started up the stairs, followed closely by Oliver and the driver, and a surreal feeling began to hang over her, as if she wasn't in her body at all, as if she was watching the events unfold from miles away. The door at the end of the hall was closed, but the rest were open, left ajar when _they_ had been taken, Emma suspected. She moved towards the closed door, her bedroom, and pushed it open without hesitation.

Books scattered the floor, ripped pages lying in fans across the carpet. Her duvet was ripped and lying over her desk, the contents of which had been thrown on the floor also. All of her drawers lay open, their contents spilling over the side.

Someone had been in here looking for something, and it didn't take long for Emma to work out who.

"Jim's been in here." She said as she walked in, picking up a hardback from the floor, inspecting it carefully to see if any pages were missing. They were, so she threw it onto her bed, sighing.

"Why has he done this?" Oliver picked up a few scraps of paper from the floor and flicked through them.

"To scare me, probably." Emma felt like crying. Her books were ruined – the one thing she loved the most, gone – broken beyond repair, "We obviously got here too late though, he probably intended me to find this when he was alive."

She moved over to the desk, and picked up her duvet, which spilled its scratchy stuffing out onto the floor. The desk was empty underneath apart from a black notebook which Emma had used as a scrapbook previously, a place to keep all of the newspaper clippings that had information about Sherlock. She dropped the duvet back onto her bed where it belonged and picked up the notebook, flicking open the cover.

The picture of Sherlock above an article on his finding of a missing Turner painting had been defaced. Bright red pen had scrawled crosses over the detective's eyes. Emma turned to the next page; the whole of Sherlock's face had been scribbled over. On the next, a huge red cross covered his face. Every photograph of Sherlock had been destroyed. Emma groaned and threw the book down on the desk, where the pages fell open at the centre.

A new image had been pasted in, one from before Moriarty's trial, when Emma had first joined Sherlock and John. Sherlock's face was, again, scribbled out but that wasn't what she was looking at. A large, red circle had been drawn around Emma's face and her eyes had been scratched out so that the paper of the notebook could be seen behind the newspaper. Above her head read the words '_ALWAYS WATCHING_'.

Emma froze, staring at the writing, then her eyes flicked instinctively to the window, checking for people in the street below. She reached out and shut the book, then picked it up and threw it in the bin under her desk, shivering.

"What was that?" Oliver asked, moving to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder.

"Just some old notebook I don't need anymore." She lied, shrugging. Lying to Oliver was effortless. She moved past him, and set about scooping clothes out of her open drawers and dumping them in boxes ready to take home, "Make yourself useful and pack up those CDs, yeah?" She nodded towards a shelf on the far side of her room, and Oliver gave her a weak smile, before leaving her alone.

She glanced back at the notebook in the bin. It was proof that Jim had been in here. Suddenly she didn't want to touch any of her possessions. She felt as if they had been infected, like she could catch something deadly from breathing in the air. She turned to the driver, realising that she hadn't bothered to learn his name yet,

"Hey, um?"

"James," He nodded at her as he took the books that remained on the shelf and placed them in a cardboard box that sat on her bed.

"James," Emma repeated it so that she would not forget, "Do you mind finishing up in here? I can't be in this room anymore." The driver nodded, and Emma smiled at him, before leaving.

She went into her mother's room, and moved to sit at the dressing table where all of her jewellery hung from an ornamental tree that Andy had bought her the last Christmas Emma had spent there. Hanging from the branch closest to Emma was what she had come to look for – a small, silver locket that Emma had given her mother when she was three or four years old. Inside was a drawing the young Emma had drawn of her and her mother. She hadn't needed to open it; she remembered it clearly, as if she had drawn it the day before.

She unhooked it from the jewellery stand and opened the clasp, slipping it around her neck and fastening it there. Tucking it beneath her t-shirt, she shivered as the cool metal touched her skin. She pushed herself up by leaning on the dressing table and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

><p>It got dark early, which always made Emma tired. By the time she and Oliver got to the hotel they were to stay at both were yawning, despite it barely being nine o'clock. She collapsed onto her bed as soon as possible, closest to the window so she could keep an eye on the street below, burying her head in the pillow and groaning.<p>

"You okay?" Oliver asked, sitting down on his bed heavily, unlacing his shoes and throwing them down on the floor.

"Mm hmm," Emma nodded into the pillow, "Just a bit tired."

"Don't forget to take your pills tonight." Oliver said carefully.

"Mm hmm."

"Emma?"

"Mm hmm?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"Mm hmm."

Oliver tutted, "That's a 'no' then." He muttered. He hopped off of his bed and perched on the end of Emma's, poking her foot. She tried to kick him and he laughed, "You're not that tired, you just don't want to talk to me."

"Oh no, I've been rumbled." Emma's voice was muffled by the pillow. She sat up, turning to face Oliver. Her face was red from where it had been pressed into the fabric, "What makes you say that?"

Oliver shrugged, "You've been weird with me all day – I'm guessing your dream made you feel uncomfortable and that's why."

Emma raised an eyebrow at him, "I should give you more credit, you're not actually that stupid."

Oliver gave a look of faux shock, "The highest of compliments, thank you."

Emma narrowed her eyes, "Shut up." She leant forwards and kissed him. He pulled away after a few moments,

"Should I bother asking about the dream?" He raised an eyebrow. Emma sighed,

"Not tonight." She lay back on the pillow, facing the ceiling, and placed her hands behind her head. Oliver lay next to her, leaning his head on her shoulder. Emma looked across at him, "You don't mind, do you?"

Oliver looked up at her, his face almost confused, "Why would I mind?"

_You'd mind if you knew_, Emma thought.

"I don't know," Emma said.

"Well, that's okay, then," Oliver smiled at her. He had such a beautiful smile. It made Emma feel guilty for her behaviour in her dream. She felt like she needed to make it up to Oliver, even though he had no knowledge of what happened.

She didn't reply to him, only moved down and kissed him, hard.

* * *

><p>It hadn't been great, but then, it wasn't supposed to be, was it? It's supposed to be clumsy and uncomfortable and awkward the first time it happens. Then again, Emma considered, it's also not supposed feel guilty.<p>

She guessed you were supposed to think about the person you were having sex with at the time as well, not dead murderers, but she couldn't get Jim Moriarty out of her mind. Oliver was sleeping next to her, but all Emma wanted was for him to be someone else, and that made her feel... wrong.

She got out of the bed and stood for a moment, not knowing what to do, feeling alien in her own skin. The room was dark and cold, so she scooped her clothes from the floor and pulled them back on, sitting on Oliver's empty bed, watching him sleeping for a few moments. She felt wrong; infected. Her skin itched, so she scratched at her arm, watching her skin redden and start to flake as she dug in her nails until it was raw and sore to touch.

What was she doing?

She got up and went to the bathroom, switching on the shower and standing under the water. No water how long she stood there she couldn't feel clean. She felt as if some parasite was living within her, eating her from the inside out – changing her.

She couldn't think of anything else, all she thought was _Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim_...

* * *

><p><strong>AN - told you it was weird :/**


	20. Chapter 20 - Still

**A/N - let's pretend this chapter didn't take over a year to write, shall we?**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 20 – Still<span>**

Emma sighed. It was dark; she didn't know what time it was. She hadn't been able to sleep, so she had left Oliver alone in the hotel room and taken a walk. She wasn't surprised at where she ended up.

The water down below her shimmered in the gloom; the bright blue lights attached below the bridge's arches reflecting flowing projections on the brickwork. She stared at them, her hands resting on the wall in front of her, stained orange by the dull glow of the streetlights. A cool breeze brushed her cheeks, and a chill fell down her spine – it was, after all, only April – the wind teasing her hair and tangling it with the cord of her headphones as slow, melodic piano chords played in her ears.

_'Simple promises you said you'd never break / But now you have'_

How long she had been stood there she didn't know, all she knew was that she was restarting the same album for the third time. Her fingers shook as she picked her iPod out of her pocket, but she ignored them. Emma was used to that by now. As she was momentarily pulled away from her meditation, she glanced around behind her, making sure that no one was watching her from the shadows. She didn't expect to see anything, but as she pressed her thumb to the play button she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Someone was standing behind her, silhouetted against the streetlight behind them. Emma couldn't see their face, just their outline. Their hair was slicked back, and their hands nonchalantly tucked in their pockets as they stood. They didn't appear to be moving anymore; just standing, staring (Emma assumed their eyes were on her, seeing as she was the only other person on the bridge). She shivered, moving her hand up to pull out one earphone and turning her body so she faced the stranger. They made no attempt to acknowledge this, which struck Emma as odd and unsettling, but she pulled out the other headphone and bundled them in her pocket anyway, taking a step towards the man (she had deduced this from the stranger's build and height). He seemed familiar... if only she could see his face...

"What do you want?" She asked. She put on an accent – thick Glaswegian. This could be anyone; they could know who she was. Emma felt sick.

The man said nothing, but cocked his head to the side. As it moved the light from the streetlamp fell upon his features, illuminating them in a menacing orange glow. Emma froze. She could have sworn her heart stopped beating. Her breathing became more rapid, and her skin felt colder and colder as her head reached boiling point. She fell back onto the pavement, her arm scraping against the brickwork of the bridge, ripping the fabric of her coat, but she didn't care. She couldn't close her eyes even though they were filling with tears. Panic rose in her throat like vomit, and she opened her mouth to scream but the only thing she could say was,

"Jim?"

She saw him smirk, but her breathing was making her light-headed. Her brain was swimming, her thoughts screaming out to her. They were telling her to run, or... something. She didn't know. She couldn't concentrate. Everything was... so... dark...

* * *

><p>The loud 'ping' of her text alert woke her up, and Emma found herself sprawled on the pavement. It was three in the morning, according to her mobile, and a green notification told her that Oliver had sent her four texts over the past half an hour.<p>

_Oliver Roberts - 04/04/12 02:35 – Where are you?_

_Oliver Roberts – 04/04/12 02:46 – This isn't funny WHERE HAVE YOU GONE WHY HAVE YOU TAKEN THE ONLY KEY_

_Oliver Roberts – 04/04/12 02:50 – JESUS FUCKING CHRIST EMMA_

_Oliver Roberts – 04/04/12 02:58 – IF YOU'VE FUCKING JUMPED OFF OF A BRIDGE I WON'T BE FUCKING HAPPY_

Emma dragged herself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall of the bridge, rolling her head back and stretching out her neck. She felt stiff and her body ached.

_Emma Stoneheart – 04/04/12 03:02 – victoria bridge. come quick._

She locked her phone and shoved it back into her coat pocket, drawing her legs up into her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. She risked a glance back to the streetlight where Jim had been stood – there was no one there. Had there even been anyone there in the first place? Jim was dead, he couldn't be stalking her up to Glasgow.

Unless he wasn't.

But he was.

Wasn't he?

She shook her head. The cool night air was seeping through her coat, making her body shake even more violently than it was anyway, so she huddled closer to the wall, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Thankfully, in the fifteen minutes it had taken Oliver to stumble onto the bridge (wearing his grey coat over a pair of Muppets pyjamas and untied converse) no one had approached her. She watched him cross the bridge at a half-run, looking around with a concerned look on his face. He looked pale,

"_Emma_?" She heard him yell and realised he couldn't see her, "Oh, fuck," He muttered, as he ran to the edge and peered down at the water. The blue lights danced sickeningly over his pallid complexion.

"I've not jumped, don't cry."

His head snapped around to look for her, and Emma clambered to her feet, still shaky from her fall.

"You could have said," Oliver hurried over to her, "What's happened?" His hands were on her shoulders and he felt far too close. Emma pulled back,

"I saw him," She swallowed and glanced back at the streetlight, "I think."

Oliver stepped into her line of sight, "What do you mean, you think you saw him?"

"I mean, he was there, and I saw him. Or I think I did, I could have imagined it." She shrugged, "Stranger things have happened."

"Emma, he's dead."

"I know."

"You can't have seen him, 'cos he's dead."

"I _know_." She looked down at the pavement for a few moments, then looked out at the river. She had once thought this place her sanctuary, somewhere where she was safe to be herself, safe from harm. The blue lights made her feel ill, "I know but –"

"You didn't take your meds did you? You could have been hallucinating."

Emma's heart sank a little as he said it. Maybe he was right – she hadn't taken them, so it was entirely possible that Jim had been a figment of her imagination. So why did that make her so upset?

"Yeah, maybe." She shook her head, "This has never happened before. I feel kind of weird, can we go back?"

"Yeah, yeah sure." Oliver said quickly, stepping towards her again and reaching out to put an arm around her. Emma shook her head, holding up her hands. She felt wrong, like her skin was poisonous to touch – as if she'd burn him if he even came close. Oliver nodded, but waited for her to start walking before setting off himself, watching her with a concerned look that she detested.

Emma glanced back at the streetlight, just to be sure – nothing. Oliver was probably right, she had been hallucinating. People couldn't just come back from the grave, could they? That was preposterous; Emma had more sense than that. She shook her head and turned back to face the way that she was walking, wrapping her arms around her middle, pulling her coat tighter around her shivering body. Still, hallucinating was not a good sign, and Emma made a mental note to _not _tell Mycroft about this development, because he would definitely send her to a therapist, which she did _not _want.

The walk back to the hotel room was silent – the atmosphere thick and heavy around them – making Emma feel awkward and clumsy. Oliver's hands swung by his sides as he walked, his untied shoes slapping against the pavement as they navigated the dark streets, the orange glow of the streetlights making his pale skin luminous in the gloom. He kept glancing at Emma, who was watching him warily through the corner of her eye. He looked guilty. Why did he look guilty? Emma mentally shook herself, before shifting her gaze to where she was heading. That was a problem for another day; right now she had bigger problems.

* * *

><p>Time dragged on – three weeks passing in a slump of schoolwork, doctor's appointments and reading. Emma and Oliver spent more time together than they did apart, but barely spoke about anything meaningful; Emma tried her best to change the subject whenever her father or Jim were brought up, and failing that she just kissed him until he shut up.<p>

Mycroft's parenting style seemed more 'surveillance' than supervision, which meant that Emma was becoming even more independent than she had previously been. Or she would have been, had she not had staff to wait on her hand and foot in Mycroft's house. Because of this, and because of the ever-present photographers that now hounded her whenever she ventured into central London, Emma tended to only leave the house for school and various appointments, whether they be doctors or psychologists.

The papers had not lifted their surveillance on her life, and it seemed that their anonymous source had not relented in passing on information about her. Emma was becoming increasingly suspicious of the students in her year, often finding herself listening in on their conversations without even realising she had been doing it, and watching out for anyone looking at her during classes. She had taken to buying all of the daily papers on her way to school to scan during break times, as well as picking up Oliver, who always discouraged her from reading them,

"Em, it's just going to upset you." He reached across the back seat of the car, trying to take the plastic bag of newspapers from Emma's clutching fingers, but she pulled it away.

"You don't know that, they might have decided to be nice today," There wasn't a trace of hope in her voice, "And anyway, I'm looking for clues."

Oliver's eyebrows furrowed, "Clues?"

"I'm trying to work out who the source is. They only have one, I can tell." Emma turned away from Oliver to look out of the window, watching the grey buildings pass at a snail's pace. She was starting to hate London traffic. Everything was quieter in the countryside – slower. There was less of that buzz that made her twitch, less people pushing her around and less noise to make her anxious. She took a deep breath and turned back to Oliver, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Hey, um," Oliver started, his voice strong but a little unsure, "I was wondering if you wanted to go into the city after school? I wanted to buy a new jacket or something."

Emma was slightly taken aback by the change of subject, blinking at Oliver as she processed what he had asked, "Uh, sure, I guess?" She frowned at the boy, who shrugged and turned away from her, watching through the window as the school crawl into view. They were silent until the car pulled up, the driver, James, getting out and opening the door for the two of them. Emma nodded at him in thanks, swinging her rucksack onto her back as she walked past him and into the crowd of teenagers that were dragging themselves towards the dull green gates.

"Which shitty substitute do you reckon we'll have today?" Oliver was holding the straps of his backpack as he walked as if someone was going to try to snatch it off of him, and spoke as if his question was rhetorical, but Emma considered it anyway. He was referring to the rotation of terrible supply teachers that their school had employed to replace Miss Cross, who was _still _missing, after disappearing almost two months ago to accommodate for Sebastian Moran's appointment as chemistry 'teacher'. Emma shrugged,

"I hope it's the one with the lisp – they, at least, knew what hydrocarbons are."

Oliver scoffed, "Yeah but they didn't know anything about hard and soft water, which was what they were supposed to be teaching us."

"Okay," Emma smirked, "What about the one with the bad breath? They knew about titration."

"Yeah, but they had bad breath." Oliver countered, "What about – uh – wait, did we have a Scottish one?" He frowned, trying to remember. Emma didn't need to,

"Yes, he was the one who kidnapped me."

Oliver coughed very loudly, "Ah, shit." He looked at her apologetically, "Sorry."

They had reached their usual table in the cafeteria and sat down opposite each other, Emma leaning against the window, "It's okay; it was a mistake." She closed her eyes for a few moments; the loud chatter of the students packed into the seats around them filling her head like white noise, dull and generic. When she opened them she saw that Oliver had begun setting out a pack of cards in a solitaire lay and knew that they would not be resuming conversation until the bell went for first period, and so shut her eyes once again and leant in to the cool glass of the window pane, letting the babble of the other students wash over her like waves.

"_I heard since she's come back she's not spoken to anyone – no one even knows where she's been, not the teachers or anybody._"

"_That's bullshit, they wouldn't let her back if she didn't say where she'd been._"

Emma grunted, and pulled herself out of the conversation happening on the table behind them, opening her eyes and locking them on to Oliver's, who was sat opposite. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say '_they talking about you?'_, and Emma blew air out of her nose – _'yes'_.

Oliver began scraping his cards into one pile, and slid them back into the box, closing it carefully and slipping it back into his blazer pocket. Emma shook her head at him, frowning,

"What, you think if we go somewhere else they won't be gossiping? This is _our_ table, Ol, if we leave it then it'll get snatched up by year sevens in a heartbeat." She folded her arms across her chest, feeling the chill through the thin, single paned windows, "I need a new coat, by the way."

Oliver frowned, "So?"

Emma rolled her eyes; he was so slow sometimes it actually pained her, "You said you needed to go to town today – I'm also in need of a new coat, so don't let me forget."

"Were you ever likely to?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, and Emma didn't answer him, just gave him the type of look that he should have come to expect when he asked such questions. He rolled his eyes slowly and deliberately, and waited for Emma to smirk at him – he didn't have to wait long. Pushing himself up from his seat, Oliver checked his wristwatch, "Come on, we have chemistry."

They made their way over from the cafeteria to the science block in silence, as usual. They rarely spoke at school, not out loud. Any communication between the two of them was wordless, or through texts sent from under their desks across the classroom. Emma pondered for a moment whether that was weird, before deciding that she really didn't care, because Oliver's voice got annoying after a while.

They queued outside of the science labs, Oliver checking his watch every few seconds as if this would speed up the passage of time, and Emma leaning her head against the bright paper displays of work on the walls, staring at nothing, listening to the babble of the students behind her.

"_No way – she's back?"_

_"I heard she was in rehab – addicted to cocaine,"_

_"Don't be so fucking stupid, who told you that? Ashleigh said she was in hospital – got beat up by some gang or something."_

Emma whipped around, narrowing her eyes on the girls who were gossiping. Their eyes widened, and they glanced at each other worriedly, before settling their eyes on the deep pink scar on Emma's cheek. She ignored this, and spoke, "Who's back?"

They paused, the girl closest to Emma had her mouth open.

Emma raised an eyebrow threateningly. If they really were _that_ wary of her she was going to use it to her advantage.

"Miss Cross," The girl at the back – the one who had been talking about rehab – squeaked, "Jamie Dawson said he saw her this morning when he came in to ask Mr Taylor about the physics homework."

Emma raised her eyebrows; that was not what she had expected. Miss Cross back? Where had she been? Up until this point Emma had assumed that Seb had killed her and disposed of the body so that it would never be found again, but this was interesting. Why would he leave her alive?

"Apparently she's really thin – like she's on drugs or something." The girl said again.

"But that's just a _stupid_ rumour," The girl closest to Emma said quickly, glaring at her friend, "Only the year sevens have been passing that one around."

Her friend squirmed where she stood.

"Okay… Cool, thanks." Emma nodded at them and turned back to Oliver, leaving the three girls with identical confused expressions. Oliver greeted her with a quirked eyebrow,

"Cross is back?"

"Seemingly," Emma felt her stomach twist. She stretched out her fingers before baling them into fists, listening to the joints crack.

"That's… good?" Oliver sounded unsure, but was making the effort to make light of the situation, as usual. Emma was grateful for that, and suddenly remembered why she liked him so much.

"That's great," She muttered, as the door to the classroom opened and a familiar redhead popped her head around the frame,

"Normal seating plan, thanks – there's a starter on the board." Miss Cross said with a smile on her sallow face, before she disappeared inside again. The class filed into the classroom, resuming their old seating plan wordlessly. Emma noted that no one was doing the introductory task, but everyone was staring the teacher, who was bustling around her desk as if she'd never been away.

_Oliver Roberts – 25/04/2012 08:32 – She looks like shit_

_Emma Stoneheart – 25/04/2012 08:33 – youre so polite_

Emma looked up at Oliver across the room and gave him a look. He flushed pink, and slipped his phone back into his blazer pocket, picking up a pen and pretending to get on with his work, but Emma saw him glancing at the teacher every few moments. If she was being honest, Emma didn't blame him or any of the other students for staring. Elizabeth Cross was at least three stone lighter, and her clothes hung off of her like laundry over a clothes horse. Her once pretty face was now sunken and pallid, and her eyes lined. There were deep scars protruding from the neckline of her dress, disappearing below the material and across her chest, and her nose seemed to have been broken.

Emma picked up her pencil and began the work on the board, and the rest of the class followed suit slowly, one by one. One thing was for certain, not one of the students was paying the least bit of attention to her speech on limestone; but every single one was staring at her hands, which were shaking so violently she didn't seem to know what to do with them.

Emma was just grateful that no one asked her where she had been. That could only make things worse.

* * *

><p>"What do you think of the blue?" Emma asked, turning around to look at her back in the long, royal blue coat she was trying on, craning her neck over her shoulder and squinting in the mirror.<p>

Oliver shrugged, or he did as well as he could, as he had four other coats slung over his arms, "I don't know, Em, I guess that one goes better with your hair," He was fiddling with one of the buttons on the black coat over his right arm, "You look good in blue, I think it's your colour."

Emma shot him a look and began unbuttoning the coat, before pulling on another from Oliver's arms.

"I think black is a bit too Sherlock, to be honest," She admitted, swaying from side to side and watching the coat swish after her, "I like it though."

"I don't know, with your hair and those black jeans you look kind of weird – like if you went into a dark room you'd just look like a floating face."

They paused, Emma staring at Oliver with an incredulous look on her face, before bursting out into a cacophony of laughter. Emma took off the coat and passed it back to the boy,

"Okay, not the black then," She took the coat hangers from Oliver and set about hanging the coats back where she had got them from, "You only said nice things about the blue one, I'm going to get that one."

Oliver nodded, "Cool," and followed her to the pay station, where he hauled the jacket he was buying onto the counter. Emma watched him out of the corner of her eye as he paid for it – two hundred pounds. Where had he got that sort of money? She narrowed her eyes, but was pulled back when the girl at the till smiled and said,

"That'll be four hundred and eighty pounds please,"

Emma paid with the debit card Mycroft had given her, and it didn't even make a dent in her savings.

* * *

><p>"The teacher Moran kidnapped came back today," Emma shrugged as she made her way back from the kitchen, pausing in the study where Mycroft sat in an armchair, reading a broadsheet that completely hid his face from her, "I thought she was dead, but apparently not."<p>

"Elizabeth Cross has been in a private hospital financed by my estate for the last few months, why ever would you think she was dead?" The newspaper didn't move. Mycroft turned a page.

Emma's brow furrowed, "You knew my teacher was alive and you didn't tell me?"

No answer. Emma sighed.

"I suppose there's no point asking why you personally funded her recovery, then?"

Another page turn. Emma was starting to think he was just avoiding looking at her. She tutted, and turned to leave.

"I paid for Miss Cross' healthcare because it was my fault that she found herself in her condition in the first place."

Emma stopped and turned. Mycroft had lowered the newspaper, which was now folded carefully in his lap, and had his hands placed on the arms of his chair. Emma said nothing, as if to invite him to continue. He obliged,

"I overlooked the fact that Moriarty wanted to use you as part of his plan. I should have realised that he would want to hurt you in order to get to my brother," He did not pause to accommodate for Emma's flinch when he said Moriarty's name, but continued as if it had never happened, "I should, therefore, have monitored you and those around you more closely to protect not only you but your peers as well. It was due to my mistake that Elizabeth Cross was kidnapped, and therefore it was my responsibility to ensure she received the treatment she needed."

Emma was frowning at him, "But, why would you care?" She watched as he picked up his newspaper and resumed reading it, once again hiding his face, "Why would you care about her, you've never even met her."

"I was never inclined to care about the girl, but you do," He lowered the newspaper slightly, and eyed her over the tops of the pages which drooped in a fan from his fingers, "And that is of importance to me."

Emma nodded once, her eyebrows knitting together as she tried to make sense of what her uncle had just said. Was that some roundabout way of telling her she cared about her? Probably not, but it was nice to imagine. He raised the paper again to cover his face completely and the room fell back into silence, but Emma did not want to leave. She glanced at the second armchair, placed on the opposite side of the fireplace, and then down at the plate of bread and butter she had made herself for supper in her hands, and decided that she may as well sit with him for a while.

Neither of them spoke, which was nice, Emma supposed, because often when they chatted it ended in some form of argument. She munched her way through her meal as he ploughed through the newspaper, the loud crackling of the golden flames below the mantelpiece penetrating the quiet that had enveloped them. Emma glanced at her uncle a few times, but he never looked up from the words in front of him until he broke the silence.

"Are you aware that someone is selling information about you to the news?"

His voice was monotone – no hint of emotions or, indeed, how he felt about the subject. Emma put down her plate on the coffee table between them, and brushed her hands on her jeans,

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's someone at school."

Mycroft seemed to be studying her face, but made no attempt to explain what he was observing, "And what's Oliver's opinion on the subject?"

Emma was rather taken aback; Mycroft had never asked her about him, in fact, he had barely mentioned Oliver at all since he had met him. She raised a questioning eyebrow, "Why?"

Mycroft shrugged, "Curious."

"He keeps telling me to ignore it."

Mycroft closed the newspaper carefully and placed it on the coffee table next to Emma's plate, "That should tell you something then, shouldn't it?"

The two of them were staring at each other now, their eyes locked in a half-glare. Emma didn't break it.

"What should it tell me?"

"That he would rather the reports didn't stop."

* * *

><p><em>Emma Stoneheart – 2504/2012 23:04 – we need to talk can you come over_

_Oliver Roberts – 25/04/2012 23:06 – wtf Em it's eleven pm? We have school tomorrow_

_Emma Stoneheart – 25/04/2012 23:06 – i know its you_

_Oliver Roberts – 25/04/2012 23:08 – Of course it's me who else would be texting you from my phone_

_Emma Stoneheart – 25/04/2012 23:09 – dont play dumb ol you know what im talking about_

_Oliver Roberts – 25/04/2012 23:11 – I actually don't honestly Emma_

_Emma Stoneheart – 25/04/2012 23:12 – i know youre the one selling the papers information about me_

Emma's phone started ringing almost immediately, Oliver's picture flashing up on the screen. She glowered at it, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten with some form of anger and anxiety, before sliding her thumb across the screen and answering.

"_I can explain_,"

"I'm listening."

_"They manipulated what I was saying – I'd never say the type of shit they've been reporting, you know that, right?"_

"I just want to know why you were saying things in the first place," Emma's whole body felt cold, like she'd been carved out of ice. She could hear Oliver's voice shaking on the other side. He was probably crying. Well, he did always seem to let his emotions get the better of him.

_"The first time it was just to shut them up – they'd been speculating a lot, y'know? Making shit up about you and your dad and shit because they had no hard evidence to report and – fuck, Emma, I'm sorry this is all such a huge fuck up."_

"You're telling me."

_"Em, please, it's really not as bad as you think."_

Emma laughed but said nothing. She could hear Oliver trying to pull himself together, swearing under his breath.

_"So yeah, the first time I just told them you'd been in hospital and seen a psychologist and stuff – just because they'd been printing much worse theories, and it was so fucked up because they just took my words and absolutely tore them apart. I met up with the guy again to tell him and he managed to get even more shit out of me?"_

He paused but Emma said nothing. She heard him take a sharp breath.

_"Emma, you don't understand, he was good, like a super fucking good reporter. I didn't even realise what I was saying until I said it, and then next thing I know he's pressing three hundred quid in my hand and telling me to come back if I want any more?"_

"So clearly you went back."

_"No! Not like that anyway. Jesus, Emma, it's really not like that. Do you really think I'd sell you out to the papers that way?"_

"Only an idiot denies the evidence of their own eyes."

_"I was just trying to get them to stop! Telling them how fucking wrong they were! Emma please, I didn't mean for it to get this out of hand. This is such a mess I'm so so sorry I just – fuck."_

Emma didn't know what to think. She could hear him sobbing down the line and it made the knot in her stomach jolt in a way that made her want to throw up. He sounded sincere, but how was she supposed to know? She rubbed her free hand over her face, trying to wake herself up, but she couldn't get her head around it, she didn't know what to do, or what to believe. She couldn't do this anymore, she couldn't speak to Oliver anymore.

"Don't expect me at school for a few days. At least."

_"Emma, I –"_

"Don't try and contact me."

She hung up, and leaned back against the wall, sighing.

Just when she thought life couldn't get any worse.


End file.
